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THE 

SACRIFICE 

















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God! Have Mercy on Me.” 


THE 

SACRIFICE 

A TRUE STORY 


By 

WESTON J. LE MOINE' 

i) 


ILLUSTRATED BY 
W. E. GREER, Jr. 


COX PRINTING AND PUBLISHING CO., INC. 
NEW ORLEANS 


COPYRIGHT 

1919 , 

Br 

WESTON J. LE MOINE 
All Rights Rbsbrved 



v. 

<• 


JUL 19 1919 

©Ci. A 5 2 9 2 9 1 


DEDICATED 

TO 

THE CITY OF NEW ORLEANS 
AT THE REQUEST OF 
THE MAN WHO 
RELATED THIS PATHETIC 
STORY TO ME 













FOREWORD 


Many of us to-day are just beginning the journey 
of active life. 

The book of life lies unopened before us. Its cov- 
ers are illuminated by the pictures of fancy, and its 
edges are brilliant with the golden tints of hope. 
Vainly we strive to loosen this wondrous clasp : Tis 
a task which none but the hand of Time can accom- 
plish. 

Our greatest aim in life is happiness. In one form 
or another we are all striving for it, but, unfortu- 
nately, there is a tendency to acquire happiness as 
easily as possible. The end proposed is good, but 
too often the means employed are of doubtful utility. 


THE AUTHOR. 


Many lose their balance of mind 
and become wrecks because they 
are in want of heart culture. Is 
the head of more importance than 
the heart ? Such, then, is the out- 
line of the great problem, “Hap- 
piness.” 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


“God, have mercy on me ” . . . Frontispiece 

“De good Lord says when youse rite, step 

on” page 26 

The joy of life translated into silk and 

lace . . . page 108 

Too young to understand .... page 158 
Innocence and Charity .... page 210 





THE SACRIFICE 

A TRUE STORY. 

How beautiful is youth ! How bright it gleams, 

With its illusions, aspirations, dreams ! 

Book of beginnings, story without end. 

(Longfellow. 

At twilight, the sovereign of one peaceful hour, 
‘Tennui du soir” ; when the birds, exhausted in their 
periodical flights, have repaired to places of safety, 
and warble lamentingly, as the shades of night close 
upon them. It was then, near a gurgling brook, 
midst ferns and violets, the fragrance of which per- 
fumed the air, enhanced by the freshness of vegeta- 
tion, that a lad, scarcely past his sixteenth summer, 
sat in deep solitude, in heavenly, pensive contempla- 
tion. Whatever interested him became the subject 
of long and serious thought. Meditation was his 
soul's inspiration. He had learned to think and had 
within him an element of safety found nowhere else. 
The distant tinkling of the bells of the sheep, as they 
bleated among the daisies on yonder hill, lingered in 
his ears, making his meditation more intent and 


14 


THE SACRIFICE 


sublime. He held in his hands a volume of poetical 
quotations. He loved this book, because, in it, he 
found friends who knew, friends who were counsel- 
ing him. It was in these silent studies that he 
weighed so deeply and conscientiously the great 
maxim of wisdom of Shakespeare : 

“To thine own self be true, 

And it must follow, as night the day, 

Thou canst not then be false to any man.” 

Though young in years, this lad had the mind of 
a sage, “esprit naturel,” and in these day dreams 
the young enthusiast learned to invest with visible 
forms the creations of his own fancy. 

He elevated his eyes and peered at the little hut 
sitting among the willows. How poor and lonely it 
appeared. Tradition had it, that, once upon a time, 
this haunted hut served as a rendezvous for a band 
of robbers and muderers. Later, however, the as- 
sassinators were apprehended and hanged to the 
sycamore tree which stood by the gate. Consequent- 
ly the hut was dreaded and evaded by everyone. So 
strong was the horror that no one cared to occupy it, 
and, eventually, it was offered to any one who would 
accept it. The poor but courageous farmer, James 
Ferry, became the owner. All of this Lewis knew 
well, because the boys in the village took a special 


THE SACRIFICE 


15 


delight in reminding him of it, with sneers and 
mockery. 

But, thought he, adversity is the touchstone of 
character. There beats not a heart but has felt the 
force of affliction. No creature could be more un- 
happy than a man who had never known affliction 
and sorrow. How can we exercise the grace of con- 
tentment if all things succeed well? 

The assurance that, in this humble home, reigned 
a queen among women, eased his panting heart. In 
this home, void of grandeur and luxury, was the 
center of purest affection, where every good prin- 
ciple was fostered and sustained. True it is that 
around the home circle cluster the happiest and, 
sometimes, the saddest of recollections of youth. 
Memories, both bitter and sweet, linger in the cham- 
bers of the mind long after those of the busy years 
of maturity have faded away before the approach 
of age. 

He knew that his humble home was dedicated to 
love and truth, to all that was tender in feeling and 
noble and pure in thought, although it was not in- 
vested with elegance of upholstery or draperies. 

His loving mother, the true worth of womanhood, 
was striving to attain something for the honor and 
elevation of her son. She was a woman of true in- 
telligence, and endeavored to inculcate in the mind 
of her son the real meaning of life, and firmly im- 


16 


THE SACRIFICE 


press him with the true meaning of the saying, 
“Mine honor is my life ; both grow in one.” 

The summit of his ambition was to go out into the 
wonderful world — to encourage the weak and suf- 
fering — to help others to know themselves. He felt 
assured that nothing was nobler in the employment 
of men than to make others happy; to be generous 
and forgiving to human frailty. Oh! how grand 
this would be! He had the compassionate disposi- 
tion which inclines men to pity and to feel the mis- 
fortunes of others as his own. It is, of all disposi- 
tions, the most amiable, and, though it may not re- 
ceive much honor, is worthy of the highest. 

His father had died when he was but a child, leav- 
ing them destitute. He had a faint recollection of 
him, before the hand of death had taken him away. 
His poor, courageous mother toiled incessantly, day 
after day, in order to drive starvation from their 
door. No one knew the battle that she fought. No 
one offered her assistance. Only God, in His infinite 
mercy, sent the Angel of Consolation to comfort 
them in the hours of need and distress, assuring 
them that poverty is no disgrace, and He Who is 
Master Supreme sends the most suffering to those 
He loves best. 

It is to remind us of the virtue of obedience; a 
virtue so dear to our Saviour, that He practiced it 


THE SACRIFICE 


17 


until death. He felt such excruciating tortures ; and 
did he utter the slightest complaint? 

Lewis understood it all. It is one of the mys- 
teries of our life that the noblest gift of God to man 
is nourished by poverty. No, not in the brilliant 
salon, furnished with every comfort and elegance; 
not in the library, fitted and looking out upon a 
smoothly green lawn and a broad expanse of scenery. 
But most frequently in adversity and destitution. 
Poverty is one of the best tests of human quality. A 
triumph over it is like graduating with honor from 
some great university. It is a certificate of worthy 
labor, faithfully performed. 

Suddenly the musings of this virtuous youth were 
broken by the voice of his mother. He instantly 
rose, strode down the path that led to the stile under 
the tall elm tree, in the boughs of which sang a mock- 
ing bird, using its best crescendo notes. 

“Come, my son, and partake of the supper I pre- 
pared so hurriedly. See how tempting are these 
sweet potatoes. I cooked them in the ashes. But 
now, touch them not,” said she, laughingly, “until 
you have told me what you are thinking about.” 
Taking two potatoes she placed them on his tin plate 
unnoticed. 

His head drooped “a Tabandon.” His lips quiv- 
ered, his mind was vivid with the thoughts he had 
entertained while in the flowery dell. 


18 


THE SACRIFICE 


“My dear son,” looking at him anxiously, “you are 
sad; you eat sparingly. Come, tell me what your 
fancies are.” Pausing, she repeated her plea. “You 
are too young to indulge in the seriousness of life. 
Why do you ponder so? Tell me all, my son, and 
feel sure that mother will help and enlighten you. 
Tell me, my boy, what is preying on your mind ?” 

His heart was full, and he could not speak. He felt 
choked, and words failed him. 

She clasped his hand in hers and said affection- 
ately: “Come, sit here beside me and let your heart 
be open to mother. ‘Elle seule vous abandonnera 
jamais.” 

He obeyed, placing his arms around her and 
uttered, half cryingly : “My dear mother, forgive me 
if I pain you with what I have to say. You — have 
been so loving and kind to me — .” His voice grew 
faint and weak. “I — have — concluded — that it — is 
well-nigh time that I try to better our condition. We 
are utterly miserable, mother. Our neighbors shun 
us. No one seems to care for us. The time has 
come — I can resist no longer. Mother, I wish to go 
out into this great world and make myself worthy 
cf the esteem of all. Yes,” elevating his voice, 
“things are hard with us. See, what a paltry meal 
we have. It hurts me — oh ! how cutting it is — to see 
you work incessantly, and for what? How I crave 
to help you, dear mother.” 


THE SACRIFICE 


19 


“Stop; let me think,” cried she, chokingly. “The 
good dwells in the kingdom of duty; the bad sits on 
the throne of might. To live truly and nobly is to act 
energetically. Life is a battle to be fought valiantly, 
inspired by high and honorable resolve. It means 
also perseverance. When we see how much can be 
accomplished in any given direction by the man or 
woman of but average ability who resolutely perse- 
veres in the course of action adopted as a ruling pur- 
pose of their lives, we then arrive at a just estimate 
of the value of perseverance as a factor in success. 
Listen, my son. I admit that you have spoken the 
truth. You have shown how necessary it is to be 
prudent and industrious. I know we are poverty- 
stricken. Life is merely a grind to us, but ’tis said 
‘Every cloud has a silver lining/ Therefore, let us 
trust in Him Who knows best — and some day, per- 
haps, the hand of Providence will direct our course 
in life to better days ; days upon which we shall look 
back with hearts all joyful, all peaceful, ‘jour de 
joie/ ” 

She then placed her hands upon his shoulders and 
said : “Go, and whatever the responsibility may be, 
bear it patiently and honestly, but,” arousing her- 
self, “you must be prepared before you enter the 
busy world. You lack neither will nor courage, 
dearie, but you are not trained, you haven’t the 
power, you need education. Not the kind that trains 


20 


THE SACRIFICE 


the mind and poisons the heart. No, but the one 
that will convince you that it is absolutely necessary 
that you remain pure in the sight of your God, as 
you must be in the sight of man.” 

“Mother! mother!” and the tears dimmed his eyes. 
“You know I can work; maybe I could work for my 
schooling. Fll work, and study while I rest. Mother, 
am I right?” 

“Yes, my child, and I’ll help you through, with the 
good will of God.” She sat motionless, and finally, 
in a hurried voice, said: “Listen; I know a certain 
monk, who is the Abbot of the Monastery (Charite). 
I have been told that he is charity itself, and has 
helped a number of young men secure education. I 
care not approach any one else, lest I be sent away 
with sneers.” 

“But, mother, we’re not Catholics. Will he be glad 
to admit me into the Monastery?” (Opening his eyes 
in fear and astonishment.) 

“Anyway, I shall see what he’ll say,” she con- 
tinued. “I have a presentiment that it will be agree- 
able to him. I know that we are not Catholics, but 
if he has a heart, and is humane, he will most cer- 
tainly extend a helping hand. I know that your dis- 
position will help you through.” 

“Yes, mother; in our present circumstances we 
are dissatisfied. What is more miserable than dis- 
content? Now, mother, what would become of you? 


THE SACRIFICE 


21 


You will be alone! 0! I cannot, no, I must not, 
leave you alone.” 

“Do not fear, dear child, mother will be safe. I’ll 
get Aunt Lucindy to come and live with me. She 
and little Pete will be delighted. Come, now, we have 
made our plans. Eat your potatoes and drink the 
milk. It is time for you to go to bed. Sleep will re- 
fresh you, and to-morrow we shall see about our 
journey and quest.” She kissed him gently on the 
brow, led him to his room door, and retired to hers. 
“La nuit soulage le cceur.” 

Lewis, of course, meditated upon what the out- 
come of it all would be. He could not sleep. He sat 
near the window, deep in thought. Oh! how he 
wished for the morrow to come! He could bear to 
live this life no longer. What a terrible ordeal it 
was ! Still, in the depths of his heart he felt a regret 
to leave the old homestead — the place where he was 
born and reared. Though people called it the haunted 
hut, the abandoned cabin, he loved it. He looked 
upon it as a blessing in his life, for it had served to 
make him appreciate the beauties of life. Would he 
be satisfied at the Monastery — to live with the 
monks? He had heard of the terrible life it was. 
And yet — was he satisfied with his present life? He 
moved forward, rested his arms upon the window- 
sill, and bowed his head. He sat there long in silence, 
trying to solve it all. After a while he raised his eyes 


22 


THE SACRIFICE 


toward heaven in a desperate effort to find his an- 
swer. 

The moon, shining with brilliant luster, cast its 
rays about the hut. The little brook, with its strange 
gurgling tones, the insect world, seemed to be in one 
grand revelry, every noise of Mother Nature re- 
sounded in his attentive ears, he was charmed with 
the tumultuous festivities of night. 

0! nocturnal darkness, how resplendent in your 
pleasing nature ; how you do bring soothing balm to 
the wounded spirit, and encourage the broken heart ! 
You ease and help to think — one is free to search his 
conscience in your presence. What is more restful, 
more gratifying, than to meditate with you? You 
contain all requirements of serenity — your skies are 
adorned with bright and radiant jewels, twinkling 
always, in significance of light and knowledge of the 
Savior of mankind. Your coolness and refreshing 
air bring repose. Who, when overwhelmed with per- 
plexities, tormented with vice, pained with grief, 
will not find enlightenment, consolation and sym- 
pathy in your spiritual and thoughtful instructions? 
The best of all books is the book of nature, full of 
variety, interest, novelty and knowledge. The height 
of the heavens reminds us of the infinite distance be- 
tween us and our God. Hill and valley, seas and con- 
stellations, are but expressions of divine ideas, ap- 
pealing to the living soul of man. God writes the 


THE SACRIFICE 


23 


Gospel, not in the Bible alone, but on trees and flow- 
ers, in clouds and stars. All, in short, speak of the 
power of the Author. 

Lewis' mother, in her shabby but tidy room, was 
meditating on the words of God : “Ask, and it shall 
be given you ; seek and you shall find ; knock and it 
shall be opened to you." She had confidence that 
“Whatsoever we shall ask, according to His will. 
He heareth us." 

She closed the Holy Book, buried her face in her 
hands, with tears streaming down her cheeks. There, 
in the silence of night, she seemed to hear a super- 
natural voice whispering : “A wise son maketh a glad 
father." Memories of her beloved helpmate filled her 
heart with unspeakable grief. “If he were only here 
to encourage me ! But the hand of death has clutched 
him from me, and left me to mourn helplessly." 

If we could only bridge the gulf between this 
world of change and the future world of changeless 
immortality, undoubtedly, it would be the greatest 
development lying before the present century. 


CHAPTER SECOND. 


“The greatest friendship of Truth is Time. Her 
greatest enemy is Prejudice. Her constant com- 
panion is Humanity.” 

“Mis Nellie, Pse dun cum agin; I’se feelin' mity 
bad to-day — had de misery in ma head de whole nite 
thru. Please, marm, gib me some ob dat medsin you 
done gin me yistiday. It revived me quick.” 

“Poor Aunt Lucindy, why didn't you come for it 
last night?” 

“De Lawd be kind to you, Mis Nellie. Some day 
He's gwine bless you, for He knows you is a angel. 
Where am dat boy Lewis? Yonder he is” (seeing him 
in the barn). “Poor little man; always workin' like 
a mule. Now, I'se gw ine fetch dat nigger o’ mine to 
help dat dere boy feed dem pigs.” 

She and her boy, Pete, lived a short distance from 
the Ferry home. She never failed to make her fre- 
quent and informal calls at the little hut. Always 
complaining of this or that, a habit which had be- 
come second nature with her, the poor old soul was 



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De Good Lord Says When Youse Rite, Step On 


THE SACRIFICE 


25 


goodness itself, ever willing to help her white 
friends. She was a typical African, and it was very 
amusing to hear her trace her ancestry back to some 
Congo chief. Though uneducated, she was sensible 
and quite philanthropical, and was delighted in re- 
lating encounters and experiences during the ante- 
bellum days. 

“It sho makes me feel sort o’ blue when I start a 
thinkin’ about dem days, ob long ago. Chile, youse 
neber had trouble; youse neber had to work wid a 
man rite nex to yer wid a stick as long as a yard, 
ready to slam you on de back if you dared to stop. 
But good Lawd bless dat dere Mr. President when 
he cleared us free niggers. Gee, chile, Fse sho glad, 
cause my master was sho hard on us. He called us 
‘pore black trash.' But I knowed dat he was wrong, 
and sure as youse born, dat Massa John got so down 
and out, dat it jist nachally killed him. Fse sorry; 
yes, de Lawd knows Fse sorry, cause Massa John 
couldn’t work — he wasn’t trained to it. One day 
Massa John sed he wus gwine beat the black hide 
ofen Fred’s back, cause Fred had neber picked no 
four hundred pounds of cotton dat day, but poor 
Fred wus sick, and he tole Massa John ’bout it, but 
Massa John kicked at he and sed: ‘I’ll git ye.’ Fred, 
he wanted to run off, but I clasped ma hands in pray- 
er and beg Fred to stay right here, and keep his mouf 
shet ; some day de good Lawd will deliber us. ‘Ebery 


26 


THE SACRIFICE 


dog hab his day/ ” 

“Aunt Lucindy, I have a favor to ask of you.” 

“What am dat, Mis Nellie?” Her mouth opened 
with astonishment, he arms akimbo. 

“I expect to send Lewis to school. He has ex- 
pressed a desire to receive an education, and I ex- 
pect to leave to-morrow morning for the Monastery, 
and in the event that he is accepted I shall consider 
it a special favor should you consent to come and live 
with me, as I would be alone.” Words failed her, 
her voice hushed and she broke down on the steps. 

“Lawd, Lawd a’mercy, Mis Nellie, hush dat 
weepin’. De Lawd says: 'When youse knows youse 
rite, step on/ An dat’s what I say. Dat boy is a won- 
der. He's gwine ter git dere some day, sho’s dat dere 
chicken is got fethers on his back. Now, hush, Mis 
Nellie,” fondling her. “I know on my sole ob oner, 
I’se can’t say no to you. I’se gwine cum rite here and 
take care ob you. Yas, I sho will. Now you take dat 
dere boy to schoolin’ to de ‘Monstry,’ whateber dat is. 
Dis here boy ob mine will do de stirrin’ round here. 
Nigger’s got to work. Dey can’t do nuthin else no- 
how.” 

Aunt Lucindy was excited and pleased to such an 
extent that she danced for joy. 

“Doing good is the only certain happy action in 
one’s life. If there is a pleasure on earth which angels 
cannot enjoy, and which they might almost envy 


THE SACRIFICE 


27 


man the possession of, it is the power of relieving 
distress. A large heart of charity is a noble thing. 
Good deeds double in the doing, and the larger half 
comes back to the donor.” 

In the meantime Lewis had approached his moth- 
er, placed his arms around her and said, affection- 
ately : “Mother, don't cry ; if it breaks your heart to 
see me leave, I would rather stay at home.” 

“Now, look here, little man, Mis Nellie's done 
stuck it into her head to let you go, and I says you'se 
gwine.” 

“Aunt Lucindy, will you take good care of my 
mother? Promise me you will?” 

“Chile ob de Lawd, Aunt Lucindy's gwine keep her 
vision on dat dere mudder ob yourn, and what's 
gwine make her happy's gwine gib me joy. Now, 
youse all qit dat cryin' ; it makes me feel weak at de 
hart.” 

The morning was a glorious one. Everything 
around the hut seemed to have taken on new life. 
The fowls had collected around the speakers on the 
steps, chattering in their own dialect, as if they 
meant to say: “We will miss you, your kindness, 
your care.” In reality, everything around the hut 
would feel lonely without him. How he sympathized 
with everything ! The flowers, how he admired them 
for their delicacy and fragrance; the birds, they 
th?illed him with delight; the trees, they furnished 


28 


THE SACRIFICE 


him shade and coolness when he was fatigued and 
warm. All would feel neglected without his care and 
admiration. 

All in readiness, the journey was begun . The 
party consisted of Lewis, his mother and Pete. The 
old barouche was dusted and cleaned thoroughly. 
Old Tom was hitched, a surprise to him, for he was 
seldom put into the harness for such travels. As they 
wheeled along the old country road, all his friends of 
the fields and woods seemed to bid him a fond fare- 
well. He could see all of his favorite haunts. How 
often he had been there. How perfectly delightful it 
was. Yes, he really grieved to leave them all. 

The Monastery, “Charite,” worthy of its name, 
conducted by men who led a life under rules and 
vows and practiced the counsels of perfection, was 
located on a bluff overhanging a lake. With large 
tracts of woodland, the grounds around the edifice 
were superb beyond description. It was indeed a vast 
tract of exquisite landscape over which invigorating 
breezes ever played. A garden of flowers bloomed 
in profusion. The wide and long avenue of oaks pre- 
sented a sight long to be remembered. A haven for 
the birds, a resort for the weary, an ideal institu- 
tion for young men who wished to live a life of no- 
bility, to secure an education that does not corrupt 
the mind, but a teaching which convinces that man 


THE SACRIFICE 


29 


must die, and some day will have to answer for his 
actions. 

“On the veiy tree, planted by my hand, there 
grows a thorn that pierces my very heart. Behold, 
how I bleed! It is a reminder of the weakness and 
humility of the heart, the beginning, the foundation 
of all virtue. Christians, of every state in life, will 
find in Him a pattern of all virtues. He bore all un- 
worthy treatment, not merely with patietnce, but 
with an unspeakable meekness. He preferred to en- 
dure their malice without resistence, but with 
meekness. ,, 

As they were nearing their destination the bells 
of the cloister pealed out their ringing echoes. It 
incited Lewis with a longing desire to be there ; each 
sound that was audible, each step that was made, 
each glimpse that he had, animated him and brought 
him nearer and nearer to the place that he knew ab- 
solutely nothing about. 

His mother was silent, too. She was framing and 
repeating to herself the little talk that she was to 
make, “avec courage. ,, They reached the heavy iron 
gates with big arches entwined with ivy, a symbol 
of fidelity. The words “Charite,” Deus Miserere 
Nobis” were sculptured in the arch above the gates. 

Lewis' mother peered through the iron bars, and 
perceived a monk coming toward the gates. A pea- 
cock perched on a fountain was proudly strutting, 


30 


THE SACRIFICE 


displaying its gay plumage, and, with its mournful 
cry, announced their coming. 

“Good afternoon, my dear friends/' surprisedly 
uttered the monk. “Anything you wish?” 

Lewis, embarassed, stood speechless. The appear- 
ance of the grave monk shocked his every nerve. It 
was the first time that he had ever seen a monk in 
his religious garb. 

His mother spoke pleasantly and pleadingly. 
“May I see the Abbot?” 

“Indeed, lady,” and he unbolted the gates. 

How beautiful and enchanting were the environ- 
ments of this sacred place. The avenue, carpeted 
with pebbles so white that it made them feel as if 
they were walking on a snow-covered pathway; its 
borders of marguerites and daisies, fringed with 
phlox of every hue, were really very delightful to 
behold. 

It was in the merry month of June, when Mother 
Nature is at her gayest. The lawns, so green and 
smooth, of such a vast expanse, presented a beauti- 
ful aspect to the eyes. Truly this was an inspiration 
to an artist. 

How anxious he was to know how it all would 
terminate — whether he would be accepted or or- 
dered out of this lovely place. 

“Hope humbly, then with trembling pinions soar.” 


THE SACRIFICE 


31 


They were ushered into the cloister and told to 
await the Abbot. 

“0! Les heures de doute!” 

Hope, when used with prudence, acts as a health 
tonic. Human life has not a surer friend. It is the 
miserable man’s God, which in the hardest trial of 
calamity never fails to yield him beams of comfort. 
Also, remember it is the presumptuous man’s devil 
which leads him a while in a smooth way, and then 
lets him break his neck on the sudden. But there is 
a source of consolation to all who rightly seek it. 

The doors of the cloister opened noiselessly, and 
on the threshold stood a man far advanced in his 
fifties, tall and straight, his hair as white as the 
kerchief clasped in his hand, which he used habitu- 
ally to brush his brow when he desired to think; 
with eyes of one who reads through your very soul, 
one who knows your failings and weaknesses as well 
as your good qualities. He bowed and spoke gently; 
his voice bespoke sympathy and eagerness to assist. 
“You seek me, I’m informed.” Advancing nearer, 
taking the hand of Lewis, he pressed it tightly. 

“Yes, Abbot, I have come to you, not as a beggar 
or a charlatan, but as one who wishes to be directed 
— one who is lost, foresaken, destitute. Abbot, my 
son and I are not of your denomination, but, in the 
name of the One who directs our course in life, help 
us. I have no money, I’m penniless, but whatever I 


32 


THE SACRIFICE 


possess otherwise, you may claim, should you see fit 
to do so. I have come to you with my son, my only 
child, beseeching your excellence to take him in your 
charge, that he may receive the proper training. I 
know not what your estimate of him will be, but I 
feel confident that he will prove himself worthy of 
your attention and consideration. He is at the age 
when all boys make plans and ofttimes are overpow- 
ered by their inclinations and fancies. ,, 

He smiled pleasingly, cleared his throat and spoke 
like she imagined a saint would speak. “Allow me to 
thank and congratulate you, kind lady, for your 
candor and humiltiy. It is not in my power to resist 
your honest cause and pleading. ‘He that hath mercy 
on the poor, lendeth to the Lord.' It is not only to 
gratify our own feelings that we are to be charitable. 
God has given us the most precious commands on 
charity and alms-giving. He threatens with His 
wrath those who are avaricious and those whose 
hearts are hardened by their wealth, whilst, at the 
same time, He promises His most abundant bless- 
ings and the full happiness of Heaven to all who are 
willing to help the poor. In the name of God on high, 
I shall take unto my care your son, exercise the best 
of my understanding to make him follow the path 
of rectitude. With his good will I feel justified in 
saying that he will never regret being with us.” 

“Now Abbot, as I have stated before, I can offer 


THE SACRIFICE 


33 


you no money, but I live on a little farm, and, when- 
ever it is possible, I shall send produce to help pay 
the expenses that my son will be under. He will work, 
he is at your disposal. ,, 

“Persons seldom improve when they have no 
model to follow but themselves.” 

“Nay, nay, kind lady, you are not required to make 
sacrifice; all we want is your good will and confi- 
dence. If you are too poor to pay for the tuition of 
your son, worry not about it. Return to your abode, 
and be assured that we shall be devoted to him.” 

After the arrangements were completed and im- 
plicitly understood, he opened the door and allowed 
her to pass out. With his arms around Lewis, he 
petted him affectionately. 

“When a strong brain is weighed with a true 
heart, it seems like balancing a bubble against a 
wedge of gold.” 

She bade her son a fond good-by. Lewis, in her 
embrace, wept bitterly, saying: “Mother, you will 
miss me? Come to me often.” 

“My dear son, be obedient to your superiors ; heed 
the good counsel of the Abbot. Mother will be happy 
to know that you are doing your duty.” 

“Every good act and every good purpose will re- 
ceive its own reward.” 

The Abb was deeply touched by the fond part- 


34 


THE SACRIFICE 


ing, and said encouragingly : “My kind lady, I am 
certain that your son will avail himself of his duties. 
I can see that he has been properly reared.” 

“What we learn in our youth 
Grows up with us, and in time 
Becomes a part of the mind itself.” 

The Abbot was termed a “grand savant.” He was 
known to be prudent, a good administrator, chari- 
table, progressive and priestly. He was recognized 
by all as a man of gentleness and piety in the labors 
of the church and humanity, and had other char- 
acteristics that shone forth from time to time, dis- 
playing the aggressive, practical and gainful mind. 
He found time, however, to read a great deal. It was 
said to be his favorite recreation, always expanding 
his mind with researches in classics and assimilating 
the beautiful principles of moral philosophy. He 
was ever ready and quick to appreciate merit, and 
manifested a lively regard for the welfare of his as- 
sociates. One of his greatest sayings was : “Seek ye 
first the Kingdom of God, and His justice.” 


CHAPTER THIRD. 


True worth is in being, not in seeming; 

We get back our mete as we measure. 
We cannot do wrong and feel right, 

Nor can we give pain and gain pleasure, 
For justice avenges each slight. 

The air for the wing of the sparrow, 
The bush for the robin and wren, 

But always the path that is narrow 
And straight, for the children of men. 


Night had come. Lewis, in his appointed room, 
was in reverie before he retired for the night. His 
room was on the second floor, overlooking the lake. 
He was sitting by the window enjoying the scene 
that had caught his eyes. His thoughts simul- 
taneously took wings and soared about his humble 
home. 

The moon in its resplendent and fiery glow was 
invading the horizon and luminously ascending its 


36 


THE SACRIFICE 


orbit, casting golden rays and reflections on the 
silvery waters below. His face seemed to be saddened 
by a passing thought when, hark ! he heard a voice. 
His eyes scrutinized the waters of the lake, he lent 
his ear to the thrilling voice. There, in the reflection 
of the moon, he perceived a small boat floating 
along at its own disposal. The occupants were two, a 
man and a woman. She, in a contralto voice, was 
singing plaintively, accompanied by the violin played 
by the man. The masterpiece was so beautifully ren- 
dered, every word was perfectly audible. 0 ! indeed, 
it touched his sensitive heart. 

Who, when overwhelmed with solitude, will not 
feel consoled, enlivened, by the sweet flowing melody 
so gratifying in '‘The Rosary” ? 

The last phrase, “To kiss the Cross,” resounded 
and lingered in his ears. It invoked him; the echo 
seemed to be supernatural. He revently bowed his 
head in silence, trying to fathom the intentions, the 
purpose of this impulse, sinking, swelling in his 
heart. The inspiration had incited him with courage 
and perseverance. 

Though he knew not what the Rosary was, what 
it was to recite the beads, “To kiss the Cross,” still 
in the profoundness of his heart he could feel a 
craving to pray, as the voice continued, “To still a 
heart in absence wrung.” Presently, the Prefect 


THE SACRIFICE 


37 


knocked on the door, a warning that it was time to 
retire for the night. 

He knelt beside his bed and thanked God for the 
blessings he had received, and begged Him to be 
merciful with his poor mother. 

The morning dawned with all the splendors of a 
bright summer day. He was requested to assist at 
the early Mass in the chapel. Together with the 
boys he marched to the pew, looked about the church 
in amazement. Everything seemed so natural at 
times, and then a puzzled feeling would overpower 
him. Where was he? Was he to remain in entire 
ignorance of these strange happenings, or would 
they be explained? What was the meaning and pur- 
pose of these ceremonies ? 

After Mass, the Abbot ascended the pulpit and de- 
livered an eloquent and forcible sermon. The text 
was : “God will render to every one according to his 
works.” 

“The thought and the desire of Heaven, still more 
than the sentiment of fear, my dear children, should 
direct our actions, help us to practice virtue and 
fulfill faithfully our duties. The Christian who has 
done his best in this life can confidently place his 
eternal future in the hands of God, whose goodness 
is a thousand times greater than our weakness.” 

After Mass Lewis was informed that the Abbot 


38 


THE SACRIFICE 


desired to see him. He hurried to the cloister and 
found the Abbot waiting. 

“Here I am, good Abbot.” 

“Come, now, let us sit here by the window, and I 
shall make known to you the rules of your new home 
and life. ‘Ce n’est que le premier pas qui conte.’ ” 

The rules were easily understood. Lewis was full 
of eagerness to obtain learning. He had a vehement 
longing to prove himself worthy of the esteem of 
all. 

“A special request I shall make of you, my son,” 
said the Abbot, “is always show your good will, 
honesty and courage in your work. The rest will 
come out all right. 

“You must be courageous, even in the most ordi- 
nary habitual circumstances of your life. Courage 
is not only self-reliance, valor, audacity; it is also 
resignation and meekness under disappointments 
and sufferings ; it is the effort made over self to ac- 
complish a duty. You must also have patience. 

“Your defects or sinful inclinations are the 
enemies you must fight; be full of zeal to conquer 
them. Try to show, at least, that good will which is 
a kind of courage; this virtue will neither be seen 
or admired by others, but God, Who leaves no effort 
unrewarded, will know how to reward you. 

“Prayer will be one of your most important 


THE SACRIFICE 


39 


duties. To pray, my dear child, is to converse with 
God ; speaking to Him with your heart, and not with 
your lips. We are in continual want of God’s help 
and of His gifts. He alone can preserve the life He 
gave us, and we should lose it as soon as He should 
cease to watch over us. You can pray without even 
addressing many words to God. A good thought is a 
prayer ; a good action, well-performed duty, tempta- 
tion withstood, are as so many prayers whose lan- 
guage God understands. 

“Furthermore, my son, bind the Commandments 
and law of God in thy heart continually ; when thou 
walkest, let them go with thee; when thou sleepest, 
let them keep thee, and when thou awakest talk with 
them. Because the Commandment is a lamp and the 
law a light, and reproofs of instruction are the way 
of life. Since you are not a Catholic I shall make it 
a special duty to answer all the questions you may 
feel disposed to ask about the Catholic faith. Do not 
hesitate to make inquiries of the instructors. 

“You will have free accces to the library.” 

“Dear Abbot” (Lewis spoke thoughtfully) “I wish 
to thank you from the depths of my heart for what 
you have said and done for me. I feel like one in a 
dilemma. I never had any one to be so tender and 
kind to me, save my poor mother.” His head hung 


40 


THE SACRIFICE 


for a second, and energetically he raised it again, 
speaking forcibly: 

“I call God and the angels to witness me when I 
say that I shall try very hard to do as you bade me, 
and hear all further counsel that you see ht to give 
me.” 

The Abbot clasped Lewis’ hands in his, and re- 
cited the truthful words, which the boy never could 
forget, and which always served him as a guide 
through the travels of life : 

“Count life a stage upon thy way, 

And follow conscience, come what may ; 

Alike with Heaven and earth sincere, 

With hand and brow and bosom clear. 

Fear God — and know no other fear.” 


CHAPTER FOURTH. 


Wisdom apd truth, the offsprings of the sky, 
Are immortal, but cunning and deceptive. 
The meteors of the earth, after glittering 
For a moment, must pass away. . . . 

(R. Hall. 


“ Abbot! Abbot! Come at once to Rollins' room. 
He is dying and calls for you," excitedly spoke 
Frank. 

“I shall be there presently. Follow me, my son," 
said the Abbot to Lewis. 

Lewis obeyed and they hurried to the dying man's 
room. 

“0! while you live tell the truth and shame the 
devil." 

They entered the room and found Rollins suffer- 
ing the agonies of death. His eyes, dilated to their 
utmost dimensions, were glaring with death's sign 
in them. His hands clutched his throat, his mouth 


42 


THE SACRIFICE 


opened in an effort to catch his breath ; he was pant- 
ing unmercifully. 

As soon as he caught sight of the Abbot and Lewis 
his eyes turned fiery, and he spoke in tones of 
terror : “0 ! Abbot, forgive me, pray forgive me, for 
I have sinned shamefully. 0 ! God, have mercy on my 
poor soul. Abbot, in the name of the God Who loves 
you, save me. He, in His almightiness, knows I am 
sorry — so much so, that I feel it would be serving me 
right if I should be sent to the infernal place in ex- 
piation of my sins.” 

“Peace be with you, my son. Come, now, lie here 
and be quiet; you are only feverish and demented for 
a time. Try to sleep. You need rest/” said the Abbot. 

“Yes, yes, 0! God, I need rest — rest of mind, 
eternal rest for my poor corrupted soul, infected 
with vice. I have done abominable works, works of 
the devil.” He raised his head, still clutching his 
throat. 

He noticed Lewis there, looking on surprised and 
perplexed. He leaned forward and queried: “Who 
are you? What do you want? Who sent you here? 
Did you come here to deceive also, to play the part 
of a wolf in sheep’s clothing? Abbot! Abbot! Send 
him away. I can see he is false. Look, he is trying to 
hide it. See him, the cur,” screamed the death- 
stricken man, frantically. 


THE SACRIFICE 


43 


Lewis, exhausted in breath at such an accusation, 
seemed to have taken root to the floor. The expostu- 
lations of this fearful man shook him from head to 
foot. “What does he mean, Abbot?” 

The tongue of slander is never tired ; in one form 
or another it manages to keep itself constantly oc- 
cupied. It is ever ready and delighted to blight the 
hopes of the noble-minded, soil the reputation of the 
pure and destroy the character of the brave and 
strong. 

Souls of high estate should readily understand 
that he who tries to down others is of a weak and 
evil nature, lacking refinement, shallow of mind. 

The Abbot had a clue to this strange demeanor of 
the dying man. Elevating himself to his full height, 
he folded his arms and stared at him with a look of 
surprise and suspicion. And then a passing thought 
would change his countenance to sympathy and sor- 
row. 

Was it true, really so, or only the hallucination of 
his fevered brain arising from the effect of his 
malady? 

Rollins rolled in bed restlessly, and finally drew 
himself together in the center of the bed, as if he 
dreaded to be near any one. 

The Abbot recalled several instances when Rollins 
had displayed the fault of deceit, but always made 


44 


THE SACRIFICE 


amends. Now, the time had come when the devil 
had been beaten at his own game. This villain was 
hell-haunted. 

“What is it you have to say? Come, out with it, 
you vile creature. I know you now. Tell me, who 
sent you here, and what for?” 

“0! Abbot, I am dying; have compassion, I pray 
you. When I came to you with all the suavity of a 
saint, I was playing falsely. I was sent here by men 
who had offered me an enormous sum of money to 
learn all about the monastic life, in order to furnish 
them with information so that they might publish 
statements and be able to criticise you. 

“You remember I came to you in the person of a 
poor, wayward beggar, with the hunger of a wolf. 
0 ! God, how it all comes back to me. Would that 1 
had died at the gates rather than have been ad- 
mitted into this sacred place, this home of virtue 
and Christianity, to commit this crime. 0! if those 
rascals were only here, that I might curse them. 
Devils ! Hell would be too good for them. O ! Abbot, 
hold my hand while I die. I want to be near you when 
I breathe my last. Give me your chaplet — let me kiss 
the cross, that my Saviour may pity me. I am sorry, 
forgive me, God.” 

“Recite your act of contrition, my son, and beg 
God to have mercy on your soul. He, in His divine 


THE SACRIFICE 


45 


omnipotence, will soften the severity of your sen- 
tence. Also, implore Him to enlighten your accom- 
plices, that they, too, might have contrition of heart 
for their grievous offenses. 

“God, in His mercy, forgives us the sins of which 
we sincerely repent and confess.” 

The Abbot released the dying man's hand and 
bowed his head in prayer. 

In an effort to stand up in bed, Rollins fell back. 
Just one more sigh, one more tear, and the hand of 
death had closed his eyes. 

Lewis, almost frantic, fell on his knees beside the 
Abbot with a prayer on lips and a lesson in his 
heart. 

The Abbot broke the terrible silence, saying soft- 
ly and feelingly : “A good Christian and a good pious 
man sees nothing dreadful in death. It is the be- 
ginning of a life of happiness ; it is the entrance into 
the Land of Promise, after a long journey. Now, my 
son, you have witnessed this dying man's lament; 
you see the necessity of being prepared for the death 
that must come, if we hope to attain eternal happi- 
ness. 

“Man knows that he cannot escape death, but he 
remains in entire ignorance of the moment at which 
it will overtake him. See, dear child, this man lived a 
lie — treachery. God hates lying, my child, because it 


46 


THE SACRIFICE 


is the work of His enemy, the devil. The most hateful 
of all falsehood is calumny; that is to say, the false 
accusation of your fellow-man, your neighbor. 

“Never have anything to hide; never do wrong. 
The Lord’s eyes are always upon you, even when no 
one on this earth sees you. No mortal being can de- 
ceive him; of what use would it be to you, then, to 
deceive your fellow-men ?” 

* * * 

The Abbot related the following incident to Lewis : 

“One cold and bleak winter evening a poor, ragged 
and famished man was found at the iron gates. He 
was shivernig. His limbs were numb. He spoke at 
intervals. I was deeply touched by the affliction of 
this sore and suffering man, and lent an attentive 
ear to his pleadings. He begged for a few moments’ 
shelter, a morsel of food, saying that he was for- 
saken, forgotten. Not a door was open to reecive 
him. Relatives he had none. He had naturally fallen 
by the wayside. 

“I readily took him to the infirmary, where he was 
cared for most patiently for several weeks, when he 
began to recuperate, and showed signs of health and 
vigor. 

“The monks liked him because he seemed to be so 
devoted to them. He would smile whenever they hap- 
pened to look at him. 


THE SACRIFICE 


47 


“ 'Beware of treacherous lips with perpetual 
smiles/ 

"He told them that they had saved his life, and 
made of him a better man, and he, too, would de- 
vote his remaining days to serving God. 

"No one ever suspected that this wolf in sheep’s 
clothing was but a spy, who was eager to support 
anything derogatory to the Church by publishing 
slanderous trash; such slander too much for any 
sane person. Honestly speaking, our Government is 
at fault for permitting obscene filth of that kind to 
pollute the mails. The pouches should at least be 
fumigated after being emptied. 

"Remember, there is seldom anything uttered in 
malice which returns not to the heart of the speaker. 
He that indulges in such vices shows what we may 
expect from him. 

"It is only envy, and envy is a poison. It is com- 
posed of odious ingredients in which are found 
meanness, vice and malice in about equal propor- 
tions. Like death, it loves a shining mark; like the 
worm, it never runs but to the fairest of fruits. To 
argue with one who is under the dominion of envy 
is useless. He is so blinded that he is always degrad- 
ing or misrepresenting things which are excellent. 
He cannot see perfection; he is too incredulous to 
understand that he has sinned against God by 


48 


THE SACRIFICE 


breaking his Commandment, 'Thou shalt not bear 
false witness against thy neighbor/ 

"But, strange, indeed, when one of those defamers 
makes up his mind to study his weakness, not by 
reading false statements, but in spending years in 
researches, finding the truth, he admits that he is 
ignorant and his mind was poisoned. 

"The room of the dead man was ransacked, but 
the works of the defamer could not be found, until 
one of the monks, while preparing the body for in- 
terment, discovered a wide band around the body 
of Rollins, which was worn next to the skin, directly 
under his arms, so as to make it convenient for the 
hand to be thrust in the inclosure. It was filled with 
letters and pamphlets against the Church and its 
teachings. 

"Further investigation led to the discovery of the 
meeting place of Rollins and his instigators. Some 
of the monks remembered seeing Rollins out in the 
grounds and woods on several occasions at a late 
hour. They also had observed him standing under an 
old spreading oak, away from the Monastery. 

"The tree was carefully examined, and, to their 
utmost surprise, they found the secret mail box in 
the large root that protruded from the earth. A hole 
had been bored which served as the mail box for the 
calumniators. 


THE SACRIFICE 


49 


“The monks held a conference as to what should 
be done with the corpse of Rollins. Should we inter 
it, or notify those who had sent him there? 

“How very sad and painful was the condition of 
this dead man. Have you ever thought of this? And 
yet, who ought to be more affected by this than us, 
who find it so easy to obey those orders which are 
given us kindly and tenderly? If it does not depend 
upon us, entirely, to change the sad condition of this 
poor soul, at least it lies in our power to render that 
condition less hard. In the eyes of humanity he is 
our equal; in God’s eyes, he is our brother. Conse- 
quently, we owe him justice, care and affection. 

“This pious devotedness cannot long remain un- 
known; soon it will be talked about, and God will 
reward us for our noble conduct. Believe really that 
charity makes the giver happier than the one who re- 
ceives their kindness; the joy compared to the bliss 
of Heaven.” 

The funeral was performed with all the solemnity 
of the sacred rites of the Church. He was interred 
under the large oak at the same hour that he fre- 
quented it. A marble slab was placed against the 
root with the inscription : 

“Let Not the Sting of Calumny Sink Too Deeply in 
Your Soul.” 

Upon further deliberation the Abbot concluded 


50 


THE SACRIFICE 


that it would be best to inform the compatriots of 
Rollins that he was dead and buried. 

“My Dear Sirs — You will undoubtedly be sur- 
prised at the sad news I have to convey : the death of 
your staunch friend, Rollins. It took place yesterday 
morning. I was with him, and he was conscious to 
the last. May God have mercy on his soul. I merely 
write this to assure you of my sympathy. 

“I remain, in Christ, 

“ABBOT.” 

We are all hastening onward to a tribunal at 
which a Judge presides, unto Whom all hearts are 
open, and by Whom the test of truth will be applied 
to every word and work of men. There will come a 
day when our everlasting condition, of happiness or 
misery, will be assigned to each of us. There will 
be no party strife, no arguing for victory; hence, 
why should we impute to each other malice and false- 
hood, and I know not what else? These things are 
wrong, and where wrong exists let it be pointed out 
and exposed. But when we consider the force of 
prejudice; the natural quick-sightedness of men for 
what tells in their favor, and their blindness to its 
opposite, charity will make us reluctant to impute 
the moral motives. 

We all must stand before one Judge, must all be 
judged by one Law, and, on the last day, it will be 


THE SACRIFICE 


51 


seen that every one engaged in defaming others will 
have acted the part of a fool, as well as a destroyer. 

How shameful and despicable! Do you not con- 
sider it, particularly, as the sign of a very bad heart? 
It is only envy. How it leads to every dreadful con- 
sequence. Envy makes one egotistical, unjust, often 
wicked, and always unhappy. An envious person 
wishes to have everything to himself, so as to leave 
nothing to others. 

It was jealousy and envy that caused the death of 
Abel. It was jealousy and envy which led the 
Pharisees to condemn our Saviour. 

0! never let this evil passion take root in your 
heart. 


CHAPTER FIFTH. 


“Character is like stock in trade; the more of it 
a man possesses, the greater his facilities for mak- 
ing addition to it.” 

“Chere amie — there you are, as quiet as a mouse. 
Ha! ha! I'll bet I can guess what you are reading.” 

“The bet is made. You cannot tell me what this 
book is about.” 

“Well, don't you know that I have read it, too? 
Look on page 121 and you will see a little phrase 
that I have written.” 

“But you have not told me the title of the book.” 

“Well, it is The Life of Virgil.' ” 

“Good ! You are a wizard,” 

“Did you like it?” 

“Yes, very much so. His poems gained him fame 
and friends. At one time some lines from them were 
recited on the stage, when Virgil happened to be in 
the theatre, and the whole audience rose to do him 
honor. 


THE SACRIFICE 


53 


“To his epic poem, The iEneid,’ he gave the last 
eleven years of his life ; he purposed devoting three 
years more to polishing and elaborating the poem, 
but he died without having given it his final touches. 
It is said he wished, in his last illness, to burn it, but 
his friends forbade, and it was preserved and pub- 
lished without alteration.” 

“I simply love to study human nature. I find pleas- 
ure in it,” spoke Lewis. 

“I don’t care so much to know about other peo- 
ple. What is the use of worrying about the others?” 
answered John. 

“Well, there’s where we differ,” said Lewis. “Look, 
yonder goes the Abbot for his walk. Let’s catch up 
with him; he’ll be glad to have us join him.” 

The conversationalists were students of the 
Monastery. John Russell was nearing his gradua- 
tion, while Lewis Ferry was a novice. 

John was delighted with the companionship of 
Lewis, who looked upon John as his chum. They 
talked together, read together, and in that way their 
acquaintance ripened into mutual friendship. 

So strong was their affection that the one was sad 
and lonely when the other was not present. 

This particular evening Lewis had found solace 
on a rustic bench in a far corner of the grounds, 


54 


THE SACRIFICE 


reading. John was taking his finals, but as soon as 
he extricated himself from his task he sought his 
friend. 

“Please, kind Abbot, may we walk with you ?” The 
Abbot was in deep thought, and almost jumped when 
Lewis addressed him. He responded hurriedly : 

“With much delight, my dear boys. Lewis on my 
right and John on my left,” laughingly added the 
Abbot, with his arms around them in a fatherly way. 
Thus they walked on and on, discussing life and its 
trials. 

“Yes, Abbot, just one more month, and I shall be 
gone. Gone into the world. Oh! how happy! What 
will become of me? What will be my purpose, my 
anxieties, in this outer world ? Will I be able to resist 
temptations that will stare me in the face?” laugh- 
ingly uttered John. 

“John, you are fully prepared to enter this gay 
world, if you will only remember what I have tried 
to instill in you. Again, I shall illustrate and prove 
who is your best friend in this wonderful ‘beau 
monde/ There is no other thing of more worth to thee 
than it. It is Conscience — that which enables us to 
discern good from evil, the natural law of God ; the 
voice which speaks from the depths of our souls. You 
must follow its dictates; you can hear it only by 
showing good will and sincerity towards yourself. 


THE SACRIFICE 


55 


A good conscience makes one happy and contented. 
It doubles our pleasures, and consoles us even in dis- 
appointment. It alleviates our sufferings. Let these 
words of holy Scripture sink deeply into your heart : 
Tn every action, listen to the voice of thy conscience ; 
thou wilt never meet with a more faithful adviser !’ ” 

“Abbot, true it is. I’ll make it a point to always 
heed my conscience, but, now, what will constitute 
my happiness? I do not know what my lot is. What 
will bring me happiness?” inquired John. 

“Well, what is it that you will seek in this world to 
bring you happiness?” asked the Abbot. 

“I shall first seek honor and respect,” answered 
John. 

“And then!” said the Abbot? 

“Then I expect to accumulate a fortune.” 

“And then?” 

“Well, then I expect to select a wife, and be happy 
with my family.” 

“And then?” anxiously asked the Abbot. 

John peered at the Abbot innocently, and failed to 
reply. 

“And then remember that man is mortal,” added 
the Abbot, embracing John fondly, “and some day 
he will be called to account for his actions. Listen 
to me, John: The object which men have in view in 
their purusits is happiness. Very often they falsely 


56 


THE SACRIFICE 


imagine that their happiness consists in the very 
things which can only make them restless and un- 
happy. Thus it is in the possession and enjoyment of 
wealth that some seek their happiness; others seek 
it in the gaining of world honors ; and others, again, 
in the enjoyment of false pleasures. But do they 
succeed in gaining the object of their pursuit? Are 
they contented and satisfied, so as to want nothing 
more to make them happy ? Is any one happy in the 
possession and enjoyment of earthly things?” 

“Now, why is this?” doubtfully questioned John. 

The Abbot answered: 

“It is because created things can never satisfy the 
desire of the soul; they can never supply its wants, 
therefore, they can never make you happy. Experi- 
ence will teach you that, when you wander from God 
for the sake of enjoying the riches, or honors, or 
pleasures of this life, you wander, at the same time, 
from peace and happiness. You wander, therefore, 
from the very things you seek; you labor under a 
fatal delusion, deceiving your own self. 

“The only true happiness is in the God that made 
you. It is only in seeking and obtaining Him, by lov- 
ing and serving Him, that you can find the peace and 
happiess you seek. It is only in this that your wants 
and all the desires of your heart can be satisfied. 

“Now, John, as I have stated, heed your con- 


THE SACRIFICE 


57 


science, and you will find life not so burdensome as 
some have found it. There will come to you certain 
trials when you will be at a loss as how to get rid of 
your troubles, but, again, heed conscience. And, re- 
member, the longer you wait to make retribution the 
more your difficulties will increase. If you marry, 
know your wife, share her burdens, be a true help- 
mate.” 

“ Tt is a strong argument for a state of retribu- 
tion hereafter, that in this world virtuous persons 
are very often unfortunate, and vicious persons 
prosperous !’ 

“This life is only a state of trials, a few days 
granted us for the purpose of preparing ourselves 
to be admitted into the joys of Heaven. Take care, 
my son, let not the whirl of social intercourse master 
you. If you fall in love with a virtuous and sensible 
woman, marry — but remember, no hastiness; know 
thyself and trust in God. 


CHAPTER SIXTH. 


“ ‘The love we should bear to a parent is not to 
be measured by years, nor annihilated by distance, 
nor forgotten when they sleep in dust.' ” 

“0! Mis Nellie, here am a letter from Lewis. I 
know it is,” screamed Pete, handing the letter to 
Lewis’ mother. “Dar it is, Mis Nellie. I jes loped dat 
mule for all it’s worth, ’cause I knowed you wus 
lookin’ for one letter.” 

She tore open the letter nervously, sitting on the 
steps so as to read aloud to Aunt Lucindy, who was 
standing with her arms akimbo, and Pete was look- 
ing on anxiously and attentively. 

“My Dear Mother — Please be kind enough to 
pardon my negligence in answering your most ap- 
preciated letter. It meant so much to me. Thank you 
most heartily for the little souvenir. It occupies the 
place of honor on my reading table. 

“I am very busy nowadays. Have scarcely a min- 
ute to myself. The examinations are about over for 


THE SACRIFICE 


59 


a while, but I want to go straight to work again, with 
more energy and perseverance. 

“Dear mother, I wish to thank you a thousand 
times for the sacrifice you have made in sending me 
to this worthy place. I can never tell you how much 
it has meant to me. Whatever I may be able to do for 
you, will never repay the debt of gatitude I owe you. 

“I know you miss me, mother, and I can voice the 
same feeling, for I miss you more than you can 
imagine. But let us hope for the best. 

“Last evening I felt so lonely. I was sad because 
my good friend, John, has gone away. He was so 
anxious to get home. I am sure that I shall be happy 
here, although the home-sick feeling gets the best of 
me once in a while. 

“How is dear Aunt Lucindy? She is such a good 
old soul. I often think of her. (“Bless his heart, ” put 
in Aunt Lucindy. “Mis Nellie, read dem lines agin,” 
and the. tears streamed down her cheeks.) And that 
good friend of mine, Pete? Tell him I often picture 
the good times we have had together. (Pete, almost 
heart-broken at this, shook his head.) 

“Mother, I again thank you, and rest assured that 
you have the first thought in my prayers. I know you 
will say that the best thanks I can offer is to make 


60 


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the most of my opportuniites, and I shall strive hard 
not to disappoint you. 

“Your loving son, 

“LEWIS.” 

She folded the letter and stood up looking at the 
woods and fields before her. Her thoughts did not 
come or go in the order of sequence. Her mind was 
active rather with a series of emotions and flashes of 
feeling. Now and then a hint of some incident that 
occurred there some months ago. How it all came 
back to her ! 

Her good son, she missed him in many ways. Not 
without a tinge of sorrow did she realize that he was 
gone. Probably it would be years before she would 
have him back. She knew that whenever she should 
express the desire for him to come home he would 
not hesitate. Though it was killing her to have him 
away, she would never, never let him know. 

The delightful and invigorating freshness that 
blew across the fields this morning and lingered with 
its delicious odors and cool breath, eased her burn- 
ing heart to some extent, but suddenly it would swell 
again with pangs of sorrow and pain. It almost 
choked her. She walked into the house and called 
Aunt Lucindy to assist her to bed. She was feverish 
and weak. 

“Mis Nellie, what am de matter wid you? You’se 


THE SACRIFICE 


61 


pale as a ghost, and tremblin' like a leaf. Please, 
mam, tell me what is ailin' you ?" 

“Nothing, Aunt Lucindy; I only feel tired and 
feverish." 

Aunt Lucindy could not be put off that way. She 
had a heart, and could feel for others, though it had 
been trampled on and abused so often that it was 
about immune to sufferings. She returned to her 
work, but something prompted her to watch her 
mistress closely. After a short while she entered the 
sick room again and found her mistress dying. Her 
hands were clasped in prayer. Her eyes were rolling 
in agony. Aunt Lucindy screamed for Pete, and 
lamented herself unrestrainedly. How pitiful and 
touching it was to see this good and devoted colored 
mammy sobbing and shivering with grief over the 
dying condition of her beloved mistress. 

“Lawd, Lawd ob Glory, have pity on my mistress. 
Save her, 0 ! Lawd ! Mercy heben ! Peace be to her !" 

With the assistance of Pete, she tried to lift her 
so as to give her water, but her lips were cold, her 
teeth were locked — she was dead. 

Aunt Lucindy, exhausted, in tears and sobs, was at 
a loss to know what to do. Where could she go for 
help ? 

The people in the neighoborhood detested them. 


62 


THE SACRIFICE 


They would turn her down if she appealed for as- 
sistance. Finally she decided to send for old Dr. 
Felix, thinking probably he would come to her suc- 
cor. She would implore him — tell him how it all hap- 
pened — and then he might advise her what to do. 

How was she to break the sad news to Lewis? 0 ! 
no, she could not. Only the thought of it made her 
heart break. 

The doctor arrived with Pete, and examined her 
dead mistress. He said death was due to heart fail- 
ure and complications. He advised Aunt Lucindy to 
let Lewis know of it at once. 

But how could she? It was too far for Pete to go 
alone, and she had no money to hire any one to go 
to the Monastery. 

“Leave it to me, then,” said the doctor. “Pll in- 
form the boy of the death of his mother.” He imme- 
diately sent a message to the Abbot, requesting him 
to convey the sad news to Lewis, and asking both of 
them to come at once. 

How uncertain is human life! There is but a 
breath of air, and the beat of a heart between this 
world and the next. When death enters a home we do 
not philosophize ; we only feel. The eyes that are full 
of tears do not see, though in course of time they do 
see more clearly than those that have never known 


sorrow. 


THE SACRIFICE 


63 


4 ‘What does he know,” said a sage, ‘‘who has not 
suffered V Death quickens recollection painfully. 
Memory recalls a thousand sayings to regret. The 
grave cannot hide the face of the one who sleeps. The 
coffin and the green mound are cruel. They force us 
to remember. A man never sees so far into human 
life as when he looks over a wife or mother's grave. 
His eyes get clear then ; and he sees, as never before, 
what it is to love and be loved, what it is to injure 
the feelings of the beloved. 

The human heart is prone to give way to grief 
and lamentations. But wait ; soon, when like the tired 
pilgrim thou shalt fall sick and weary, He will take 
you home to rejoice in finding friends from whom 
you have been separated ; then how true the saying : 
“It was all for the best.” 

Experience is often bitter, but wholesome; only 
by its teachings can we learn to suffer and be strong. 

It may be affirmed that good men reap more real 
benefit from their afflictions than bad men do from 
their prosperities; for what they lose in wealth, 
pleasure or honor, they gain in wisdom and tran- 
quillity of mind. 

“No creature would be more unhappy,” said the 
sage, “than a man who had never known affliction.” 

It is better to suffer than to injure. Endeavor to 
extract a blessing from it. Christianity itself is a re- 


64 


THE SACRIFICE 


ligion of sorrow. It was born in sorrow, in sorrow it 
was tried, and by sorrow it was made perfect. 

Lewis and the Abbot were seated under the tall 
elm at the stile. They had just returned from the 
grave where Lewis' mother had been laid to rest. 
Lewis was striving to understand the meaning of 
these sad trials, while the Abbot consoled him, en- 
couraged him in his soft voice and helpful sayings : 

“Yes, my son, remember what you have seen and 
what I say to you. Some day it will bring you happi- 
ness, a reward for your efforts and fortitude." 

Those who have suffered much are like those who 
know many languages — they have learned to under- 
stand and to be understood by all. 

In sorrow we love and trust our friends more ten- 
derly and the dead become dearer to us. 

The theologian says: “Every Calvary has an Oli- 
vet." 

“All mankind must taste the cup which destiny 
has mixed, be it bitter or be it sweet." 

“The great author says, 'Sorrows gather around 
great souls as storms do around great mountains 
but, like them, they break the storms and purify the 
air,' recited the Abbot. 

“Now, my son, dry your tears, for your mother is 
in heaven. I know the loss of so tender and loving a 
mother is felt. 0 ! a mother's love, a mother's grave ! 


THE SACRIFICE 


65 


It is indeed a sacred spot. It may be unnoticed by 
the stranger, but to our hearts how dear ! Who has 
stood by the grave of a mother and not remembered 
her pleasant smiles, kind words, gentle influence and 
earnest prayers for us ? 

“Alas ! how little do we appreciate a mother's ten- 
derness while she is near us on this earth. But when 
she is dead and gone from us, when the cares and 
coldness of the world come withering to our hearts, 
when we experience how hard it is to find true sym- 
pathy, how few love us for ourselves, how few be- 
friend us in misfortune, then it is that we think of 
the mother we have lost. 

“Rest assured, my son, that you have been a de- 
serving and exemplary boy, the pride and life of 
your mother." 

Lewis only bowed his head in sadness. Words 
failed him. His heart was full and he could not 
speak. In sadness he repeated, “My only love is 
dead." 

“Now, it is only right that that we should recom- 
pense the good and faithful servant of your mother 
for her kindness and loving care. I would suggest 
that you bequeath her all the household effects, and 
some of the stock and poultry. The balance we shall 
take to the Monastery.' 

“Dear Abbot, I am at your command, and what- 


66 


THE SACRIFICE 


ever your conscience shall see fit to do, will be grate- 
fully appreciated.” They returned to the hut in a 
somewhat settled attitude, Lewis too broken-hearted 
to speak. The Abbot, all pensive, fondled him in a 
fatherly embrace. 

“Aunt Lucindy, you may claim all the contents of 
this house, as well as some of the pigs and chickens, 
for your attention and service to your mistress.” 

“De Lawd be wid you, kind sir,” and she wept 
bitterly. “Now, Fse not gwine take dese here 
things 'cause it's gwine ter pay me fer takin' care of 
Mis Nellie. No, no, Mis Nellie's neber asked me fer 
nuthin', when she done sumthin' fer me. But, if 
youse say its mine, I'se gwine 'cept em. Yes, I'se 
gwine keep dem fer a 'membrance fro mmy dear Mis 
Nellie.” 

Clasping the hands of Lewis, she cried patheti- 
cally. “My dear little man, don't forgit Aunt Lucin- 
dy, but 'member me as your poor colored mammy. 
She's gwine miss you. De good Lawd hears me when 
I say she's gwine miss you and she's gwine be lone- 
some widout you all. Down dere in my little cabin, 
I'se gwine grieve. Yes, Lawd, my friends they's 
all gwine, gwine to a better place — good Lawd!' 

This honest and faithful servant was so grateful 
and so attached to her mistress that her death was a 
tragic affair. How she would miss her, no one 


THE SACRIFICE 


67 


could imagine. In the death of her, she had lost 
her only friend. 

Old friends ! What a multitude of deep and varied 
emotions are called up from the soul by the utter- 
ance of these words : 

“A true friend is such a rare thing to have that 
you are blessed beyond the majority of men if you 
possess but one such. Be very slow to give up an old 
and tried friend. Cling to your friends after choos- 
ing them with proper caution, also beware of false 
friends. Flies leave the kitchen when the dishes 
are empty. Ravens settled down for a banquet and 
are suddenly scared away by a noise ; likewise, how 
quickly at the first sound of calamity the superficial 
friends are up and away.” 

While Aunt Lucindy was removing the old and 
worn carpet from the floor, the Abbot observed a 
rather strange figure so perfectly cut and laid in the 
dusty floor that it was almost impossible for the 
eye to detect it, but for the dust that had collected 
in the crevices. Upon investigation it was found to 
be a trap door to a cave under the hut. 

The Abbot descended the steps into the cave and 
further search led to the discovery of an iron chest 
filled with gold, silver and jewelry. The surprise 
was almost incomprehensible to the Abbot, but 
Lewis, who knew the traditions connected with the 


68 


THE SACRIFICE 


hut, readily understood the mystery. After en- 
lightening the Abbot, they proceeded to ransack the 
cave. 

Awe-stricken, the Abbot almost screamed when 
he found, partly buried in the sand, his golden cruci- 
fix, studded with precious stones, a valued gift from 
His Holiness, the Pope of Rome. It had been taken 
from his room, and no one had ever been able te 
learn of its whereabouts. 

Oh! how it filled his heart with joy, now that he 
had recovered it, and particularly so because he 
knew now how it had been carried away feloniously. 
Then he recalled the night when burglars had en- 
tered the Monastery and stolen the crucifix, together 
with other articles. 


CHAPTER SEVENTH. 


“When one sets himself to live a grand life, man 
cannot interrupt him — God will not.” 

(Brown. 


“Ce n’est que le premier pas qui conte.” 

“Abbot, I am in receipt of a letter from John. It 
is somewhat encouraging and enticing but then I 
feel a reluctance to abide by his wishes; still” (his 
voice grew faint), “I feel at times like I would care 
to visit him and convince myself, see if I shall be 
pleased and willing to lead a life as he suggests. 

“Dear Abbot, you know me better than I know my- 
self, tell me what I must do. You may read this 
letter.” 

“My Dear Lewis: — 

“You will doubtless have noticed in the newspa- 
pers, which I sent you, that the great American 

comedian, , is to visit New Orleans next month, 

and give a round of his inimitable performances. I 
know you have never seen this distinguished actor, 


70 


THE SACRIFICE 


and I am certain that you would consider it a treat to 
admire one of his world-renowned characters. I 
should esteem it a favor if you would consent to 
come and spend a part of your vacation with me, 
so that we can witness one of his wonderful presen- 
tations. 

“I had a long conversation with Ludolph last week, 
and was delighted to hear of your good fortune. Who 
could have surmised that the poor little villager 
would some day become wealthy? Well, well, now 
I shall have to address you as — what? Instruct me 
on this matter, for I am anxious to present you to 
my aristocratic and particular friends. 

“O ! how glad I was to learn that you are an ex- 
cellent, rather eminent musician. Dear boy, I as- 
sure you that nothing will hinder you from making 
and impression on our society here ; as we express it, 
a ‘hit/ 

“I can never tell you how happy I am, how pleas- 
ant life is here. It is indescribable. You will have 
to be with us to enjoy it. 

“I was told that you are religiously inclined, 
that you have been converted to the Catholic faith, 
but I sincerely trust it is not an incentive to becom- 
ing a religious, be sequestered from secular concerns. 
You are too young to be secluded in such a fashion. 
Undoubtedly, the Abbot is gradually leading you to 


THE SACRIFICE 


71 


it. But, so much as you need his good counsel, do not 
decide upon any walk in life until you have con- 
vinced yourself that you find no real happiness in 
the outer world. 

“Lewis, my friend, I am indeed anxious to see you. 
I have so much to tell you. I never thought that I 
would be so delightfully taken up in society. I was 
so ignorant of the pleasures and real life of this 'beau 
monde.’ 

“Dear friend, society is the balm of life. To be 
entirely secluded from all human intercourse is 
wretchedness. Many young men fail for years to 
get hold of the idea that they are subject to social 
duties. The spirit of life is society. 

“Now, dear Lewis, I sincerely hope you will fail 
to find an excuse to decline my invitation. 

“How is the Abbot? Remember me to him. Tell 
him I am still able to obey my conscience. Anxious- 
ly awaiting your favorable response, I am, devoted- 
ly, JOHN.” 

“Real life of this 'beau monde/ uttered the Abbot, 
with a look of repugnance on his face, as he com- 
posedly folded the letter and handed it to Lewis, with 
a smile that bespoke sympathy and regret. 

“It is to be noticed with what apparent ease of 
manner some men enter society, and how others 
remain away always. 


72 


THE SACRIFICE 


“Lewis, I understand that you are desirous to be 
in society/' said the Abbot. 

“I shall add that it is right for you to go. Enter 
the social life. You have money and nothing will 
mar your expectations, if you can resist its snares 
and make the modest use of it. 

“But, remember, men who affect your healthy 
mind with too much pleasure or sympathy will prove 
themselves very frequently your worst friends in- 
stead of your wisest counselors. It is good to meet 
in friendly intercourse and enjoy that social cheer 
which so vivifies the weary and despairing heart, 
but restraints of many kinds are necessary in order 
to avoid the vulgarity that too often befalls society. 
Society is the only field where the sexes meet on 
terms of equality, the arena where character is 
found and studied, but remember the essential phase 
of social life is the company you keep. Hence com- 
panionship with the wise never fails to have a most 
valuable influence on the formation of your char- 
acter. 

“As the poet says : 

“ 'The mind is a great deal more likely to infec- 
tion than the body. The society of virtuous persons 
is enjoyed beyond their company, and vice carries 
a sting even into solitude.' 

“It is not alone the low and dissipated, the vulgar 


THE SACRIFICE 


73 


and profane, from whose society you are in danger, 
but there are persons of apparently decent morals, 
of polished manners and interesting talents, who, 
at the same time, are unprincipled and wicked. 
These are the persons whose society and influence 
are most to be feared. Their very breath is poison- 
ous, their embrace death. 

“From impure air we take diseases; from bad 
company, vice and imperfections. 

“ 'Let no man deceive himself by thinking that the 
contagions of the soul are less than those of the 
body/ 

“ 'Tell us whom you prefer as companion, and we 
can tell you who you are like/ My son, hold on your 
way, and seek to be the companion of those who fear 
God. So shall you be wise for yourself and never 
have occasion to repent for inconsiderate actions/' 

THE FOLLOWING WEEK — LEWIS READY TO DEPART. 

''Right you are, my son. Seek your goal/' handing 
Lewis a little booklet, saying: “Let this little re- 
minder ever be with you in your hours of medita- 
tion." 

Lewis accepted it with much thankfulness, and 
read it thoughtfully. 

“When a good man is abroad the world knows and 
feels it. Beneath his smile lurks no degrading 


74 


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passion; within his heart there slumbers no guile. 
He is not exalted in mortal pride; not elevated in 
his own views ; but he is moral and virtuous before 
the world. He stands enthroned on truth ; his 
fortress is wisdom and his dominion is the vast and 
limitless universe. Always upright, kind and sym- 
pathizing; always attached to just principles; these 
constitute his only true manliness.” 

“I thank you, dear Abbot. My endeavors will be to 
live according to just principles:” Clasping the 
Abbot's hands he continued: “My one true friend, 
words are inadequate to express my gratitude, my 
many thanks to you, for all you have done for me, 
and I sincerely hope that some day I may be able to 
return your kindness. Promise me, dear Abbot, that 
I shall have a place in your prayers. It pains me 
more than you can imagine to leave you,” pausing, 
with tears streaming down his cheeks. “You, who 
have taken me in beggary, a poor, ignorant creature, 
and release me in wisdom, and, with the correct 
views of life, a good and pious Christian. I shall 
be careful to try to avoid errors, and my great de- 
sire will be to gather only the true jewels of life. 
With God and a wish to do right in human life, it 
naturally becomes a noble and beautiful thing.” 

“Yes, my dear boy, every youth should form, at 
the outset of his career, the solemn purpose to make 


THE SACRIFICE 


75 


the most and best of the powers which God has 
given him. And always remember that my ardent 
wish is to see you happy and traveling the road of 
a true gentleman.” 

“My dear Abbot, you may rest assured that time 
shall never efface the impressions you have engraven 
in my memory.” 

With quivering lips he proceeded: “You have re- 
lieved my cares, raised my hopes, and abated my 
fears. Your friendship has improved my happiness 
and doubled my joys, divided my griefs. 

“You have faithfully reproved me at my face 
for actions which others were ridiculing and censur- 
ing behind my back. You have wept with me in my 
hours of distress.” He stopped, lowered his head; 
and the Abbot embraced him, saying: 

“Friendship, dear boy, which is born in adversity 
is more firm and lasting than that formed in happi- 
ness.” 

Lewis Ferry was no longer called the little villager. 
He was now a model man. The years spent at the 
Monastery had essentially benefited him. He pos- 
sessed those inexplicable ways, so magnetic and per- 
suading, that influence which constantly and imper- 
ceptibly escaped from his daily life. He exerted this 
power over others by his thoughts, words and ac- 
tions. 


76 


THE SACRIFICE 


Tall and stately, he carried himself with ease. His 
chestnut hair, and azure blue eyes, large and dreamy, 
with a gaze that tames and bespeaks friendship, 
made him a handsome and attractive personage. He 
was a man who thought, read, studied and medi- 
tated; had intelligence cut in his features, stamped 
on his brow and gleaming in his eyes. He knew that 
man should be rated, not by his hoards of gold, but 
by his unexceptional principles, relative both to 
character and religion. To strike out these, what 
would he be? A savage without sympathy! But let 
man go abroad with just principles, and what is he? 
An exhaustless fountain in a vast desert ! 

He was sorry to leave his old and tried friends, 
the monks, they who looked upon him as their 
brother. 

The Abbot broke the silence, saying: “Dry your 
tears, my son. You will soon make new friends in 
this great world, and I trust you know the value of 
them, and again, remember the great saying : 'They 
are never alone who are accompanied with noble 
thoughts.' ” 

“Dear Abbot, I know nothing of the outer world. 
I am well informed in some things, but the realities 
of life I have never known. Therefore, do you not 
think it possible for me to go out into the world and 
study life as it is lived? With all my wealth, I shall 


THE SACRIFICE 


77 


be able to search its secret chambers. 0 ! yes, I shall 
make a deep study of life.” 

“My son, you speak broad-mindedly. I say to you, 
go, study life, with its thousand voices calling you. 
It is a great mission. It may be a crowning triumph, 
or a disastrous defeat, garlands or chains, a prison 
or a prize. Life is a thing above professions, callings 
and creeds. 

“My dear son, bear in mind the volume lies un- 
opened before you. Its covers are illuminated by the 
pictures of fancy, and its edges are gleaming with 
the golden tints of hope. Vainly you may strive to 
loosen its wondrous clasp. 0 ! *tis a task which none 
but the hand of time can accomplish. Always con- 
sider that : 

“Life was lent for noble deeds.” 


CHAPTER EIGHTH. 


My God and Father, while I stray 
Far from my home on Life's rough way, 

Oh! teach me from my heart to say, 

Thy will be done ! 

His eyes were blurred by the unrestrained tears 
as he sat in silence on the fast-moving train, bound 
for the great metropolis, NEW ORLEANS. 

He livened up as it was announced that his desti- 
nation was near, peered through the window into 
the darkness, and, in great awe, shivered from head 
to foot, as he espied the numerous spectacles of the 
city beautiful that he was entering. The bright and 
radiant lights from the skyscrapers were surpris- 
ingly grand. Those pulsing and changeable lights 
were like a great horde of fire-flies in one grand 
revelry. The strange noises made him wild. The train 
stopped, he hurried out and walked unconsciously 
into John's arms. His eyes opened in awe and aston- 
ishment. 


THE SACRIFICE 


79 


“How are you, my dear boy? Well, I feared you 
would get lost in this city. Ha, ha, ha!” joyously 
spoke John. 

“It is a wonderful change,” said Lewis. 

“Come along, we will soon be home, so that you 
can rest. I know the journey was rather tiresome, 
wasn’t it?” 

“Very much, John.” 

John’s home was a mansion in every sense of the 
word, and he occupied it alone with his private 
servants and attendants. His mother died a short 
time after he received his M. D. degree and left him 
immense wealth. 

Lewis was ushered into the spacious hallway, 
where he was relieved of his personal effects by a 
specially appointed valet, who showed him to his 
gorgeous chamber. 

“My, but I am being treated like a prince,” thought 
he. He looked about the room in joy; presently a 
moment’s reflection, a passing thought : “The begin- 
ning of my new life,” murmured he. 

“Lewis, old pal, I’m so glad to have you with me,” 
excitedly spoke John, walking into the room and 
tapping Lewis on the shoulder. “Old chum, I want 
you to be at home here. I want you to feel that you 
are at liberty to do as you wish ; understand ? 

“You will soon be on to the ways of this great 


80 


THE SACRIFICE 


city. We shall enjoy life at its highest degree — that 
is, be ever ready to entertain and be entertained. 
Ha, ha !” laughed John. 

“But, John, I know nothing about society and its 
formalities.” 

“Yes, decidely so. The etiquette of the drawing- 
room differs from that of the Monastery. What may 
be downright rudeness in the cloister may be gen- 
tility in the drawing-room,” answered John. 

“You must have agreeable manners,” continued 
John as they seated themselves by the open window 
viewing the avenue, brilliantly illuminated; “also 
fascinating powers. Your success will greatly depend 
upon your address, manners. Manners have a great 
deal to do with the estimation in which men are held 
by the world.” 

“Yes, John, I know that nothing will develop a 
spirit of true politeness except a mind imbued with 
goodness, justness and generosity. You know the 
saying : ‘Manners are different in every country, but 
true politeness is everywhere the same.' ” 

“Very well said,” replied John. “I feel sure you 
will not be at a loss to make your life agreeable and 
chivalrous. 

“Now we shall dine, and then I expect a couple of 
friends who will accompany us to the club rooms of 
the Elks. There you will meet a number of fine gen- 


THE SACRIFICE 


81 


tlemen, who will endeavor to make you feel very 
much at home and at ease. They will doubtless prove 
to be the class that you like, Lewis. For instance, Mr. 
Klotz ; he is quite scholarly, and takes delight in dis- 
cussing topics of grave importance, always trying to 
broaden his intellect. He is a great lexicographer.” 

The club was veritably a source of pleasure and 
beneficial recreation for its members, a social and 
benevolent organization, giving scope and purpose to 
their aims as true gentlemen. 

Lewis was gradually taken into the confidence of 
Mr. Klotz, and conversation finally drifted into dis- 
cussions of various natures, until benevolence was 
broached and pleasurably argued, although they both 
took the affirmative, each giving his views on doing 
good in this world of trials and hardships. 

“Yes,” said Mr. Klotz, “the enjoyment of benev- 
olent acts grows upon reflection, and if there be a 
pleasure on earth which angels cannot enjoy, and 
which they might almost envy man the possession 
of, it is the power of relieving distress.” 

“I think, Mr. Klotz,” said Lewis, “that we cannot 
conceive of a picture of more unutterable wretched- 
ness than is furnished by one who knows that he is 
wholly useless in the world.” 

“And in a moral sense,” interestingly added Mr. 


82 


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Klotz, “we know that 'it is more blessed to give than 
to receive.' ” 

“Yes,” joined in Lewis, “ 'selfishness is the root 
of evil/ 'Benevolence is its cure.' ” 

“That is a truthful proverb, my son. He that will 
not permit his wealth to do any good to others, while 
he is living, prevents it from doing any good to him- 
self when he has gone. To pass a whole lifetime with- 
out performing a single generous act, till the dying 
hour, is to live like the talipot palm tree of the East, 
which blossoms not till the last year of its life. It 
then bursts into a mass of flowers, but emits such 
an odor that the tree is cut down to be rid of it. 
Such is the life of those who postpone their benefi- 
cence until the close of their days. They then sur- 
render everything when they see they cannot con- 
tinue to keep possession, and are liberal when they 
can no longer be parsimonious.” 

“Lewis, my friend, I regret to take you away from 
your well-favored company, but it is necessary that 
we return home, as I have an urgent call to the 
suburbs,” interrupted John. 

“Well, Mr. Klotz, I do hate to leave good company, 
but I trust I shall have the honor of seeing you 
again,” courteously spoke Lewis. 

“Thank you, Mr. Ferry, the pleasure of your com- 


THE SACRIFICE 


83 


pany was elevating as well as enjoyable, and I would 
consider it a treat to converse with you again. Au 
revoir, my dear sirs.” 


CHAPTER NINTH. 


“He made his final sally forth upon the world, 
hoping all things, believing all things, little antici- 
pating the chequered ills in store for him.” 

(Irving. 

Five months have elapsed and Lewis is realizing 
the remarkable change in his life. He earnestly 
favors the change; everything is so pleasant — the 
golf links, afternoon teas, clubs, theatre parties and 
the dinners dansante. He is completely taken up in 
the whirl of society. 

His thoughts take wings as he swings, comfortably 
propped up with pillows, in the hammock on the 
veranda under the sweet-scented wistaria that ar- 
tistically clambered and adorned the spacious and 
cool veranda. “How unfortunate is he who has never 
known the blessings of society.” He drew from his 
pocket the little booklet from the Abbot, and there, 
in silent study, read it pensively. He looked back 
on the past. Oh! how touchingly sad was his past 


THE SACRIFICE 


85 


life. It seemed like a dream, a mere vision. He is 
happy now. This new life is more enjoyable than he 
had anticipated. He has written to the Abbot telling 
him that the true sphere of human virtue is found in 
society; it is the school of human faith and trials; 
and that he is still heeding his forewarning, that re- 
straints of many kinds will be necessary. His mind 
has acquired new ideas, and, by frequent exercise of 
its powers, the understanding gains fresh vigor. 
This social cheer really vivifies the weary and 
desponding heart. 

John, unnoticed, approached stealthily, took the 
booklet from Lewis, saying: “What have you there, 
dear sir? Oh! some sermon of that Abbot. Oh! for- 
get it. Let's be jolly good fellows. Come with me; 
I'm on a hurried call, and coming back we shall tarry 
at Miss Miller's. You charming fellow, she has in- 
quired about you. I am led to believe that she enter- 
tains the utmost feelings for you, old chum." 

“Oh! shoot, John; tell that to yourself; the girl 
would not have me for her chauffeur." 

“Ha, ha, ha! Believe me, she is some girl,"' laugh- 
ingly uttered John, punching Lewis in the side. “As 
pretty as a rose kissed by the morning’s dew." 

“Oh ! hush ; you're an ass." 

The call was paid, and on their way to Miss Mil- 
ler's John informed Lewis that he had decided to 


THE SACRIFICE 


_vy Edna. 'The wedding will be announced real 
soon,” joyously spoke John. 

,vhat, John! You contemplating matrimony? 

hat has gotten hold of you ?” 

“Nothing, but I have met my ideal, and wish to 
make her my wife.” 

“Your wife, John? Are you positive it will be a 
aarriage of true sentiment and affection? Why, you 
hardly know the girl. You met her just two months 
ago.” 

“I have made all the reflections necessary. My 
heart burns for her. I can resist no longer, conse- 
quently I must marry her or die.” 

“John, my dear friend, you are too inconsiderate; 
this is too hasty. Remember, 'married in haste is 
married in waste/ You have been acquainted with 
this girl for scarcely two months, and I can vouch 
that you do not know her.” 

“Lewis, there is nothing more lovely, more full 
of the divinest courage, than married life. There is 
nothing which so settles the turbulence of a man's 
nature as his union in life with a high-minded wom- 
an. And Edna is just the kind to bring me content- 
ment and happiness, rest of brain and peace of 
spirit.” 

“John, you are either infatuated or deeply in love, 
but I dare mention again the former, 'infatuated.' 


THE SACRIFICE 


87 


Of all institutions that affect human weal or woe on 
earth, none is more important than marriage. It is 
the foundation of the great social fabric, and it con- 
ceals within its mystic relations the secrets of the 
largest proportion of happiness and misery con- 
nected with the lot of man.” 

“No use arguing, Lewis; I am ready, and expect 
to enter into a league of perpetual happiness.” 

“John, old chum, search your memory and recall 
the sayings of the Abbot. ‘Marriage, to be a blessing, 
must be properly entered. I has fundamental laws 
which must be obeyed. It is a simple necessity laid in 
man's social nature, which may be read and under- 
stood of all men who will investigate that nature.' 
Then, John, marriage should be made a study. It 
should not be entered into blindly, but rather in thp 
daylight of a perfect knowledge of its rules and regu- 
lations, so that no uncertainty shall attend its real- 
ization, no unhappy revealment shall follow a knowl- 
edge of its reality. Shall you enter into its relations 
without a knowledge of these duties? John, I wish 
you every success in life, but I'm inclined to believe 
that you are too hasty in the selection of your bride. 
Don't be impulsive. Again, I say, don't enter mar- 
riage in hot haste or blind stupidity.” 

“Fiddlesticks, Lewis, you are a pessimist. You are 
too old-timey in your conceptions of life, especially 


88 


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married life. You will never be truly happy, my boy. 
Married life is the only life for me.” 

“Now you see how thoughtful and deep you are. 
I never said that married life was a disgrace. I say 
again that it is the grand social institution of hu- 
manity, but its laws and regulations are of momen- 
tous importance to the race.” 

“If I didn’t know Edna I would readily give up 
the idea of making her my wife, but I feel justified 
in saying that I am thoroughly acquainted with her 
attributes and character. She is like all women — 
loves man, the strong, the resolute and vigorous 
man. To these qualities she looks for protection.” 

“Yes, and remember that you want them blended 
with tender and lofty sentiments,” added Lewis. 

“Listen, Lewis: Some are disappointed in mar- 
riage, because they expect too much of it.” 

“Listen, John: Many, also, are disappointed be- 
cause they fail to bring into the copartnership their 
fair share of forbearance and common sense and, 
when real life comes with its troubles and cares, 
there is a sudden awakening as from a dream. But 
understand me, marriage entered into understand- 
ingly, and lived as becomes thoughtful, considerate 
human beings, becomes a delightful source of 
domestic happiness.” 

“Then, exactly so, shall Edna, my all, and I live. 


THE SACRIFICE 


89 


Our married life will indeed be the source of happi- 
ness. 

“Love at sight is truly the best,” seriously spoke 
John. 

“Now, here we are at Miss Miller's,” said John 
“and, of course, you may continue the discussion of 
marriage laws, should you care to. Ha, ha, ha! And 
let matrimony be the sequel.” 

“Laugh; 'Who laughs last, laughs best,' but, 
ahem!” emphasized Lewis, “I am not so easily and 
unconsciously trapped.” 

As they entered the garden of the suburban home 
of Miss Miller, Lewis was amazed at the beauty and 
grandeur of this palatial abode. His whole soul was 
enraptured. The scenery, the flowers, the fountains, 
made one feel like he was visiting wonderland. The 
balmy air was invigorating. “Isn't it a lovely place, 
John?” 

“As lovely as the heiress,” laughingly replied John. 

“Since you esteem the lady so highly, why is it you 
do not pay her court, John?” 

“Well, simply because she displays naught but 
mere respect for me. She does not care for me, that's 
all.” 

The Miller residence was a marble structure of 
architectural genius, with surroundings that pre- 


90 


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sented a perfect picture of beauty, picturesqueness 
itself. 

John and Lewis lingered at the fountain with its 
statuettes spurting the silvery waters that teased 
the little fishes as it rained upon them, darting and 
gleefully attempting to catch the bubbles on the 
water. 

“Look at these water-babies,” exclaimed John. 

“Yes, and interesting, too,” answered Lewis. He 
continued : 

“There is a lesson in their merriment.” 

“What is it, dear boy?” queried John. 

“Can't you see how disappointed these little 
creatures appear to be after they fail in their pur- 
suit, see the bubbles extinguish before them? This 
may be applied to mankind. Disappointments seem 
to be the lot of man. As the little fishes in the water 
vainly endeavor to swallow the bubbles, also to the 
little child with golden hair attempting to catch the 
glancing sunbeams ; thence to the old man, who, with 
whitened locks and bent frame, pursues some scheme 
of wealth. Disappointment is the almost inevitable 
consequence.” 

“Well, well,” replied John; “quite correct. It is 
well for us that the future is veiled from our eyes, 
else we would weary of the trials and allurements 
that make up the sum of our existence.” 


THE SACRIFICE 


91 


Miss Miller was busily engaged in plucking violets 
along a picturesque lake a few steps from where 
Lewis and John were standing, when, to her utmost 
joy, she perceived them coming toward her. 

“My dear Miss Miller,” excitedly spoke John, as 
they shook hands. “This place is lovely beyond com- 
parison. Kindly pardon our trespassing.” 

“Welcome, indeed. This is truly my pleasantest 
surprise,” joyously replied Miss Miller. 

“Thank you,” said Lewis, a little abashed; and 
speaking again in a more composed tone, as he held 
Miss Miller's hand in his : “We shall deem it quite a 
privilege and pleasure, dear Miss Miller, to help you 
gather these modest little flowerettes.” 

“Oh, you are so kind. I am gathering these for an 
invalid friend. She adores flowers.” 

“Pardon my interrupting,” said John, “but where 
is my fiancee, Miss Edna?” 

“Why, how thoughtless of me. She departed hard- 
ly an hour past,” answered Miss Miller. 

“Unhappy I am at the news,” disappointedly re- 
sponded John. 

“Allow me to make a statement: She will be de- 
lighted to have you go for her. I shall write her, re- 
questing the honor of her presence at tea with us.” 

“Good ; I accept your offer, my dear mademoiselle. 
I shall not tarry now. Please be kind to my esteemed 


92 


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friend,” with a gesture and bowing to Lewis. “You 
will find him quite sentimental — and scholarly, too.” 

“Away with you,” motioned Lewis. 

“We shall expect you and Miss Edna shortly,” 
added Miss Miller. 

“Easy to see that the gentleman is earnestly in 
love,” gently uttered she, “and I venture to say that 
it is a mutual affection.” 

“Yes, John is seriously in love, and I do hope he 
will be happy.” 

“I understand that you and Mr. Russell are bosom 
friends.” 

“Extremely so ; we were chums at school, and our 
friendship ripened into constant companionship.” 

“So I can see. You were educated at the Monas- 
tery, were you not, Mr. Ferry ?” 

“Yes, ma'am. I was fortunate enough to make my 
classical studies in that renowned institution.” 

They strolled along, stooping here and there, 
searching for the violets under their green foliage, 
that looked like an emerald carpet laid around the 
lake. Finally the rustic bridge was reached, and 
there, under the weeping willows, they took seats 
and admired the swan, with its train of little ones, 
feeding among the lilies in the lake. 

“This lake certainly brings to my mind an inci- 
dent of days of yore,” pensively spoke Lewis. 


THE SACRIFICE 


93 


“May I ask what the incident was?” 

“Certainly. If you will bear patience with me, I 
shall relate it.” 

“Most pleasurably,” answered she. 

“Once upon a time I was rather disconsolate; 
nothing seemed to please me. It was as though I lived 
merely to repine and lament. Consequently, one sum- 
mer afternoon I left home and wandered in the 
meadow until I reached a lake, where I stopped, un- 
der a large willow tree, in the boughs of which 
were audible moaning sounds. I was lonely. My heart 
was sad, and gradually my meditation developed into 
a deep slumber, and there, far from home, I dreamed 
that I was on a long journey, and every person that 
I came in contact with seemed to taunt me, until I 
met a man who took pity on me and who accom- 
panied me on a long journey; but my destination I 
failed to see, because my dream was broken by the 
rattling of an enormous snake. It was right near me, 
and I awoke to hear its rattle once more, and you 
may be sure, Miss Miller, I left my comfortable posi- 
tion in great haste.” 

Miss Miller clasped her hands in excitement, and 
opened her large brown eyes in amazement. “Mr. 
Ferry, did you really see it, the serpent? The very 
thought of it makes me shuddder.” 

“Yes, lady, I really heard it and had a fair view of 


94 


THE SACRIFICE 


it, too. Now, pardon me, dear lady. I am sorry that 
my narrative has moved you so, but really this lake 
reminds me of the lake at home.” 

“You have not been rude, Mr. Ferry. I was simply 
scared for you.” 

“Thank you ; you are very kind.” 

Presently the distant chimes of the bells were 
heard. It was really pleasing to Lewis to lend his 
ear to its echoes. “What bells are those, Miss Mil- 
ler?” asked Lewis. 

“Bells of a convent. I think the sound of those bells 
is as mournful as the inmates therein.” 

“Mournful, Miss? Why should you call it so?” 

“Well, Mr. Ferry, I must admit the presence of 
those grave nuns gives me a perfect horror. It ap- 
pears to me that they are always thinking of death 
and its consequences. Still, I have great reverence 
and sympathy for them.” 

“Why shouldn't they think of death?” replied 
Lewis. “Unfortunately, we poor souls too seldom give 
it a thought. Better far if we did, for it would serve 
to make us more thoughtful in this world of tempta- 
tions and trials.” 

“Undoubtedly true. I should imagine you are pro- 
foundly religious,” continued Miss Miller. “Allow 
me to propound some questions that have occurred 
to me frequently, but which I have been unable to 


THE SACRIFICE 


95 


understand clearly. First and foremost, Mr. Ferry, 
what is true religion?” 

“True religion, Miss Miller, is the poetry of the 
heart, the love of God. It has enchantment useful to 
our manners ; it gives us both happiness and virtue.” 

“Therefore, you would say that true religion gives 
a cheerful and happy turn to the mind and even pro- 
cures for us the highest pleasures?” 

“My dear lady, there is not a heart but has its 
moments of longing for something better, nobler, 
holier than it knows now ; this bespeaks the religious 
aspiration of every heart. Genius without religion is 
only a lamp on the outer gate of your palace. It 
serves to cast a gleam of light on those that are with- 
out, while the inhabitants sit in darkness.” 

“Then you would say that religion is not proved 
and established by logic?” 

“No, ma’am; it is, of all the mysteries of nature 
and the human mind, the most mysterious. It is a 
matter of feeling and not of opinion.” 

“Why is it, Mr. Ferry, that some well-meaning 
Christians tremble for their salvation?” 

“For the serious reason that they have never gone 
through that valley of tears and sorrow which they 
have been taught to consider as an ordeal that must 
be passed through, before they can arrive at regen- 


96 


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eration. I can but think that such Christians mistake 
the nature of religion.” 

“Pardon my boldness, Mr. Ferry, but let me ask 
you another important question. What are the modes 
of bearing the ills of life ?” 

“My conception of this difficult question is that 
there are three : Indifference, which is the most com- 
mon; philosophy, which is the most ostentatious; 
and religion, which is the most effectual.” 

“I agree with you, Mr. Ferry,” said she. “I think 
philosophy is a goddess whose head is indeed in 
Heaven, but whose feet are upon earth; who at- 
tempts more than she can accomplish, and promises 
more than she performs.” 

“Correct, Miss Miller, and I may add that she 
can teach us to hear of the trials and sufferings of 
others, but it is religion only that can teach us to 
bear our own with resignation. 

“There they come,” said Lewis, as he noticed John 
and his fiancee coming toward the bridge. 

“Why, yes, and we shall have to terminate our 
much-enjoyed conversation. Really, Mr. Ferry, 
words are inadequate to express my thanks to you 
for your well-deserved instructions. I have at last 
found a friend who can enlighten me in my perplexi- 
ties.” 

“The pleasure is all mine, dear lady.” 


THE SACRIFICE 


97 


“Well, a penny for your thoughts,” exclaimed 
John, saluting them. “You two seem to be so pensive. 
What are you feeding on?” 

“Nothing that would interest you two, with all 
your plans and ideals,” laughingly spoke Miss Miller. 

Lewis only smiled and observed John and his 
fiancee. 

“Oh, how lovely,” surprisedly exclaimed Edna, 
pointing to the Marie Antoinette basket filled with 
violets that Miss Miller had hung to the branch of 
a weeping willow that shaded the bridge. 

“Edna, dear, they are for our poor unfortunate 
friend, Madame Locke. She feels so comforted when 
any one sends her flowers. You may pluck as many 
as you wish, dear, here along the lake.” 

“And I shall carry the basket, John, and you shall 
gather them while I admire and caress these dainty 
little blossoms/” laughed Edna. “John, I will have 
my way.” 

“John, old pal, I see where you have a job on 
hand,” said Lewis. 

“Very true, always busy — no time for pleasure,” 
said John. 

Edna was a beautiful girl in every sense of the 
word — a perfect beauty; and this afternoon she 
looked her best in the smart gown of peau de soie, 
with a thin and filmy scarf of oriental lace artistical- 


98 


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ly placed over her decollete neck and bare, well- 
rounded arms. 

As John handed her the violets she would press 
them to her lips and then pin them in her bodice. 

“Honestly, I must say Edna is the picture of love- 
liness, 1 ” pleasantly spoke Miss Miller. 

“Truly a beautiful woman, 1 ” answered Lewis. 

“I do hope their union will be one of eternal hap- 
pniess,” said she. 

“You have voiced my feelings,” said he. “John is 
a line chap.” 

“Mr. Ferry,” interrupted she, “I wish to ask you 
to the drawing room and have you sing for us.” 

“Do I sing? Your sense of hearing has betrayed 
you, Miss Miller. You most certainly wer** misin- 
formed.” 

The drawing room was conspicuous by splendor. 
It displayed taste and magnificence. Lewis was ad- 
mitted into the gorgeous room with all ceremony. 

“Mother, I wish to introduce you to Mr. Ferry, 
John’s intimate friend.” 

Mrs. Miller bowed in a stately manner, with her 
lorgnette in one hand, ready for use. “I am pleased to 
make your acquaintance, my dear sir.” 

“Mother, Mr. Ferry will favor us with a vocal solo. 
I feel sure that you will enjoy his singing. Mr. Ferry, 


THE SACRIFICE 


99 


mother is quite an artist. She used to sing like a 
siren in her earlier days.” 

‘‘Really, I beg to be excused. I am only a novice in 
the art. Won't you sing for me, Mrs. Miller?” 

“With regret, Mr. Ferry, I have to decline. My 
voice has fled with my youth.” 

Mrs. Miller, far advanced in her fifties, was a great 
lady. Richly attired in black velvet, she was stately, 
but indifferent and cold. She hardly favored Lewis 
as a match for her daughter. 

With all the richness of his barytone voice, Lewis 
held his audience spellbound, and at the finale he 
was applauded loudly. 

John and Edna walked in from behind the por- 
tieres of scarlet velvet, enchanted by the voice. 

Mrs. Miller complimented him in a stately man- 
ner, saying: “You are indeed the possessor of 'a 
grand voice, Mr. Ferry. The envy of your fellow- 
men.” 

“John, you are certainnly misrepresenting your- 
self. You certainly have to sing,” said Lewis. “Often- 
times he led the choir at vespers.” 

“Oh, I remember, once upon a time I was quite a 
bird at it.” 

“Now, listen to that. So you shall sing, my dear 
sir,” excitedly spoke Edna. 

“Please do,” said Miss Miller, inspiringly. 


100 


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‘Tor the love of Mike, Lewis, why on earth did 
you breathe it? Now it will be my hour of shame and 
humiliation. You can simply look at me and see that 
I can’t sing. I can crow, that’s just about all.” 

“Your time has come,” said Mrs. Miller, “and you 
may as well make a quick performance of it.” 

“Well, here I go,” as he sat at the piano playing 
and singing: Teg o’ My Heart, I love you, sweet 
little girl, I miss you.’ Pardon me,” and he stopped 
suddenly, “but my breath is so short — I am unable 
to continue.” 

The applause was loud. 

“A remarkable voice. That was a beautiful solo,” 
said Edna. 

“Yes, ma’am, so low you couldn’t hear it.” 

“John, we shall be delighted to have you and your 
esteemed friend dine with us,” said Mrs. Miller, 
bringing her lorgnette to her eyes in scrutiny. 

“We accept the invitation with great pleasure.” 

Mrs. Miller was anxious to get better acquainted 
with Lewis. She sometimes thought he would do. 

After the sumptuous repast the little party re- 
paired to the spacious art room, where some of Miss 
Miller’s paintings were exhibited. 

“This is my best work,” said Miss Miller, pointing 
to a large picture of a child with a mastiff. “The title 
is ‘Friends.’ ” 


THE SACRIFICE 


101 


“Superb,” exclaimed Lewis. “You are undoubtedly 
an artist of exceptional ability.” 

“Indeed, it seems to have life,” said John. “The 
title is very appropriate.” 

“Yes, friendship is the sweetest and most satis- 
factory connection in life,” said Miss Miller. “The 
philosophy of it goes to show that it is ever ready to 
prove its courage and sincerity to the weak.” 

“Now that we are all so very much interested in 
the significance of this title, I shall be inquisitive. 
What is friendship? In other words, where do we 
find true friendship ?” asked Mrs. Miller. 

“Now, Lewis, you are the ablest one to define and 
answer Mrs. Miller’s question,” spoke John sincerely. 

“Well, really,” he replied, “I have known friend- 
ship to bloom only in the soul of a noble and self- 
sacrificing heart; wherever it is watered with the 
dews of kindness and affection, there you may be 
sure to find it.” 

“Mr. Ferry,” inquired Mrs. Miller, “have you ever 
noticed that there are persons who, from pride and 
disposition, appear to be altogether independent of 
the regard of their fellow-beings?” 

“Yes, madam, but was there ever a human heart 
that did not, at some time, in some tender and yearn- 
ing hour, long for the sympathy of other hearts?” 


102 


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“Perhaps,” answered the lady. “May I ask another 
question ?” 

“Surely,” laughingly said Lewis. 

“What would you consider a permanent test of 
friendship?” 

“Adversity is the only true balance to weigh 
friends in. Prosperity gives friends, and adversity 
tries them.” 

“Well defined,” thankfully answered Mrs. Miller. 

“Now that we thoroughly understand the merits 
and methods of securing friendship, I shall suggest 
that we depart, thanking our hostess and her charm- 
ing daughter for the splendid manner in which they 
make one feel at home,” suggested John. 

Lewis added: “I thank you for your entertain- 
ment.” 

“We hope to see you oftener,” replied Miss Miller, 
as she shook his hand, her eyes full of meaning and 
longing. 


CHAPTER TENTH. 

“If you would compare two men, you must know 
them both.” 

Lewis is in his study, trying to catch a glimpse of 
the possibilities in store for him. He must have an 
aim in life, for it’s the aim that makes the man. He 
does not want a low and sordid aim ; therefore, with 
his talent and advantages, he has decided to mitigate 
social evil and promote benevolent projects; to sum 
up, be a philanthropist. He is wealthy, and shall 
make it his aim to assist the needy and poor, for he 
knows that doing good is the only certain happy ac- 
tion of a man's life. A large heart of charity is a 
noble thing, and the most benevolent soul lies nearest 
to God. 

He remembers the instructions of the Abbot, that 
man appears in his best light and grandest aspect 
when he appears as the practical follower of Him 
Who went about doing good. He is laying the foun- 
dation for a noble and useful career. He is planting 
the seed of charity that will grow to bless and save 


104 


THE SACRIFICE 


the sufferings of our fellow-men. Also, a man should 
fear when he enjoys only what good he does publicly, 
lest it should prove to be the publicity, rather than 
the charity, that he loves. 

A conquerer is regarded with awe, the wise man 
commnads our esteem, but it is the benevolent man 
who wins our affection. 

“Lewis, old chap, here is a letter for you,” said 
John, rushing in on Lewis and tapping him on the 
shoulder. “Wake up! In reveries again?” 

“Thanks, John, this is from the Abbot.” 

“Is it? Then please read aloud. I would like to hear 
some of his dope again.” 

“No, sir; since it is dope, you shall not hear it.” 

“Now, old boy, foregive me, I meant to be good. 
Now read it, and we shall call it a lecture. 

“My Dear Child — Your letter was truly a source 
of pleasure to me. It was so full of vital informa- 
tion.” 

Lewis read on in silence, then contined: 

“Before it escapes my memory, I wish to state that 
you failed to tell me who this amiable friend is, 
whom you mentioned rather indirectly.” 

“Hey there,” exclaimed John! “See, I knew you 
cared for her. Just had to write about her, eh? Ha, 
ha!” exclaimed John. 


THE SACRIFICE 


105 


“Now, here is the lecture,” exclaimed Lewis, as he 
read on. 

“No, no, keep on with the other passage. Don't 
stop,” replied John. 

“You shall not know the rest; but, John, dear 
brother, this part : 

“I am happy to know that John has found his help- 
mate. May God bless him. Convey to him my felicita- 
tions. But you, who love him as your brother, see 
that it is a union of hearts, and not merely infatua- 
tion. For the affection that should link man and wife 
is a far holier and more enduring thing than the 
enthusiasm of young love.” 

“Oh, fiddlesticks ! Cut it short. I should like to in- 
form this man, this woman-hater, that I am con- 
scious enough to know what I'm about. Down with 
the fool,” and he walked out, vexed — angry. 

Lewis, pained by the action of his friend, buried 
his face in his hands and deliberated on the careless- 
ness and hastiness in which John was selecting his 
bride. “He's in love with her pretty face ; yes, that is 
all — nothing more.” 

“He has never stopped to consider further. Why, 
just last evening, she was trying to effect a close re- 
lation with Mr. Blake. I noticed her in the conserva- 
tory at Mrs. Miller's. But he seems to doubt me. I 
have warned him, tried to argue with him ; but, like 


106 


THE SACRIFICE 


all foolish lovers, he is blind. Ah! love, it has been 
said, in the common acceptance of the term, is folly ; 
but love in its purity, its loftiness, its unselfishness, 
is not only a consequence, but a proof of our moral 
excellence. Marriage, in comparison, is the most im- 
portant and holy relation of life, involving the most 
sacred responsibilities and influences, social, civil 
and religious, that bear upon men, and must not be 
entered upon in hot haste or blind stupidity; unfor- 
tunately it is, by a great majority of men and 
women.” 

Arousing himself from his meditation, he found 
John in his office, walked up to him and faced him 
boldly. 

“John, tell me,” with a look of scorn and disgust 
on his face, suddenly giving way to a radiant smile, 
“how do you feel, old pal?” 

John drew him to his chair, and spoke softly: 
“Lewis, you are my dearest friend on this green 
earth, and I love you deeply. I would do anything for 
you. I consider it a privilege to have you for my one 
true friend, but you know that friendship is a vase 
which, when it is once flawed by violence or acci- 
dent, may as well be broken at once. It never can be 
trusted afterwards, hence I pray you to never again 
hurt my feelings by referring to Edna as being un- 
worthy of me. You are aware of the fact that I love 


THE SACRIFICE 


107 


the girl, and our wedding is announced, consequent- 
ly, old friend, help me to make it a success. Time 
will prove to you that I have made a good choice.” 

“John, I beg you to forgive me if I have in any 
way injured your feelings. The affection that I en- 
tertain for you is firm and lasting. No boundary 
would put a limit to its growth. 

“Now, we shall not bring back dead issues. Let's 
shake hands and allow me to wish you Godspeed in 
your new life.” 

John pressed him to his bosom with tears of joy. 
“Dear old boy, with you and Edna I shall be happi- 
ness itself.” 


108 


THE SACRIFICE 


CHAPTER TENTH. 

“Beauty without virtue is like a flower without 
perfume.” 

Edna felt a thrill of pleasurable agitation over her 
wedding gown. It was the symbol, she explained, 
of so much that is gay and delightful — the joy of 
life translated into silk and lace. 

Edna was unquestionably a pretty woman, a typi- 
cal brunette, with cherry-red lips perpetually dis- 
playing a set of pearly white teeth, indeed charming 
as she was beautiful, but, unfortunately, aware of 
the fact, and she naturally expected to be admired 
and loved by all men. 

John, the eminent medical specialist, was desper- 
ately in love with this beauty. She had been made 
an orphan and was adopted by a woman who had lav- 
ished her wealth to gratify Edna's desires. It was 
the greatest desire of Edna's foster mother to make 
the wedding a function that would be largely dis- 








































- 




✓ 


♦ 















“The Joy of Life Translated Into Silk and Lace.” 


THE SACRIFICE 


109 


cussed, and called the social event of the season. 
The sacred edifice was a veritable garden of ferns 
and roses of every hue. The brilliant lights lent 
charm and enchantment and presented a garden 
scene under skies of brilliant constellations. At seven 
o'clock in the evening, as the clock of the cathedral 
chimed the hour, Edna, attired in pale, slightly dulled 
blue crepe meteor, silver slippers with buckles stud- 
ded with diamonds, entered the edifice. Her veil of 
tulle was artistically draped and held in place by a 
diamond sunburst, a gift from the groom. She car- 
ried a bouquet of white carnations and lilies of the 
valley. She entered accompanied by her foster 
mother, who looked stately in silver gray satin with 
a picture hat to match. Next came the bridesmaids, 
charmingly gowned in shell pink charmeuse, silver 
slippers with gold buckles, gifts from the bride, with 
hats and accessories to match. 

John was exceptionally handsome in his dress suit, 
his face radiant with happiness, and accompanied by 
Lewis, his best man, met Edna at the foot of the 
sanctuary, over which hung two hearts made of scin- 
tillant lights. 

The ceremony was an impressive one in every way. 
During the signing of the register the prima donna, 
Madame LeDoux, sang, in her rich contralto voice, 
“0, Promise Me.” Then suddently the glowing 


110 


THE SACRIFICE 


hearts suspended over them were extinguished, to 
reappear as one big heart in red lights. 

The sermon of the officiating minister was inspir- 
ing and truthful: 

“True marriage, my dear friends, is the result of 
years of mutual endeavors to please, and it comes of 
patient efforts to learn each other’s disposition and 
tastes. It becomes you to resolve that you will be 
happy together; or that if you suffer, it will be in 
perfect sympathy. You are not to let any human 
being step between you under any circumstances. 
The heart demands that the man shall not sit silent, 
reticent and self-absorbed in the midst of his fam- 
ily. The wife who forgets to provide for her hus- 
band’s tastes and wishes renders her home unde- 
sirable for him. Let him be loved, honored and cher- 
ished in fulfillment of the marriage vows. 

“While you are careful to adorn your person with 
new and clean apparel, for no woman can long pre- 
serve affection if she is neglectful on this point, be 
still more attentive in ornamenting your mind with 
meekness, peace and cheerfulness 

“Cherish your home; that is, let your employment 
and pleasures be domestic. 

“And the husband: I exhort you, love your wife 
even as you love yourself. Continue through life the 
same manly tenderness that in youth gained her af- 
fections. Devote yourself to her, and after the hours 


THE SACRIFICE 


111 


of business, yet the pleasures which you most highly 
prize be found in her society. Let her know that 
her care and love are noticed and appreciated, her 
approval sought and her judgment respected. Re- 
member what your wife was when you took her, not 
from compulsion, but from your own choice, based 
on what you then considered her superiority to 
others. 

“Furthermore, always bear in mind that God rules 
above you and a thousand influences work around 
you.” 

The reception was held at Mrs. Miller's suburban 
home. “A grand affair” is the only expression capa- 
ble of doing it justice. After toasts were drunk to 
the health and happiness of the happy pair they were 
motored to John's mansion, where everything was 
in readiness for the bridal tour to Australia. 

Just as Lewis clasped John’s hand to bid him “bon 
voyage” he drew John to the library, and, with eyes 
dimmed with tears, again wished him all the happi- 
ness that words could express. “But there is some- 
thing else,” said Lewis. “I would have given it to 
you before, John but, knowing how you dislike him, 
I refrained until now, when you must accept it.” 
And, drawing from his card case a miniature cruci- 
fix of gold, he presented it to John, saying: “With 
best wishes from the Abbot.” 

John stood stockstill; his heart was touched — 


112 


THE SACRIFICE 


words failed him. After some exertion he managed 
to say: “Thank him for me, dear boy. Tell him I 
trust it shall help to make me a better man, and, 
with this little reminder, I shall become worthy of 
the God who made me.” 

Lewis stood by the window and watched them 
leave. 

“Happiness,” said he, “is much like to-morrow — 
only one day from us, yet never arriving.” 

In the ideal scene, everything is painted in bright 
colors, thought Lewis. There are no disappointments 
in that picture; but, in the reality, they are sure to 
appear. Ah! to be happy is the summing up of all 
the ends and aims on earth. It is a desire implanted 
in the human breast by the Creator for purposes 
known only to His wisdom. Indeed, there is a dis- 
tinction between theoretic conclusions and experi- 
ence. What we conceive a source of enjoyment, by 
experience is found false and worthless. 


CHAPTER TWELFTH. 


“0 ! let us walk the world, so that our love burns 
like a blessed beacon, beautiful, upon the walls of 
life's surrounding dark." (Massey. 

Solitude reigned in the mansion since John was 
gone. Nevertheless, Lewis seemed satisfied at 
times, notwithstanding the fact that he missed his 
friend considerably. 

He would sit in John's office all alone. Everything 
reminded him of his friend. How he longed for his 
speedy return ! Love was animating his heart, sym- 
pathy breathing in every tone. He devoutly wished 
John well. Tears of pity gathered in his eyes and 
trickled down his cheeks. He felt the absence of his 
friend, for John was so much to him. 

Seated at te desk, he thought of writing a short 
missive to the Abbot, apprising him of the fact that 
he really was pleased and contented here in the outer 
world. He had made some firm friends, and cher- 
ished the greatest regard for them all. He was truly 


114 


THE SACRIFICE 


happy ; but, nevertheless, he ofttimes cast a thought 
on the good old friends of the Monastery. 

Presently his eyes, always in scrutiny, discovered 
a bit of pink stationery among the papers on the 
desk. Picking it up he unfolded it, and, to his sur- 
prise, it was a missive from Edna to John. Forget- 
ting himself, he read it. 

“You asked me a very momentous question. 
Smarty, I shall not answer it, and trust that hence- 
forth you will meet me in some degree with a little 
concession to my individual tastes. Now beware, if 
you intend to arouse my jealousy, let me tell you 
that it is a very dangerous game to play. How dare 
you accuse me of thoughtless coquetry? What mo- 
tives actuated you to make such a charge? I wish 
you to be impressed with the fact, sir, that I do not 
encourage the attentions of other men. It occurs to 
me that we entered into our engagement rather 
hastily, and that I was persuaded, against my better 
judgment, to fix the date for our marriage so soon. 
I trust that I have been sufficiently explicit and will 
add that, unless you come to see me immediately, I 
shall be compelled to act differently. 

“Yours, anxiously waiting, 

“EDNA.” 

He flung the letter back on the desk angrily. 

“Curse her, traitress ! There is no womanly pride 


THE SACRIFICE 


115 


in you. What is beauty without wisdom, beauty with- 
out chastity?” 

Pacing the room in his agitation he recalled the 
many times he had endeavored to convince John that 
this deceitful thing did not care a snap of her finger 
for him. It was all a farce, and some day he would 
be forced to see it, to his utter pain and remorse. 
“Too late,” cried he, running his long fingers through 
his hair nervously. 

“What will be the outcome of it all — the end, the 
finish? Oh! merciful God, have compassion on my 
unfortunate friend. Help him, dear Lord, to have 
fortitude to bear it patiently with resignation to the 
Divine Will. 

“She is false to him. That is easily seen The let- 
ter is sufficient evidence. Fool that he is! Blind, 
mad, infatuated! 

“Sad is the thought,” said he, “that in this world 
of ours there are so many lives shadowed, and by 
what? Disappointment. We can only drop a tear 
over him whose errors wrought his own recompense.” 

Yes, true were his words. Better for us, too, that 
the future is veiled from our eyes, else we would 
weary of the trials and disillusionments that make 
up the sum of our existence. 

“However, I trust that it will not be as cruel as 
it appears. Still, it is sometimes God's mercy that 
men in their eager pursuits are baffled and that we 


116 


THE SACRIFICE 


mount to Heaven mostly on the ruins of our cher- 
ished schemes, finding in our failures our real suc- 
cesses. Life is indeed a variegated scene, full of 
trials and full of joys; bright dreams, some fulfilled, 
more disappointed. Perhaps the truest philosophy 
is not to expect much in our plans and hopes. But 
alas! how apt we are to be oversanguine. We are 
certainly confronted with two ends, success or fail- 
ure, in everything. 

“To win the former requires so much perseverance 
and labor. We must be able to simulate and to dis- 
simulate — and this is where poor John failed. He 
did not have the will to make the necessary exertion 
and resistance. He lacked courage; was unable to 
discern her many defects. 

“He who will persevere in a course of wisdom, 
rectitude and benevolence is sure to gather round 
him friends who will be true and faithful, but she 
possessed none of these virtues. How can she be 
true and faithful ? Ah ! if he had only had the will 
to reject her when she displayed such baseness and 
ignorance. Says a common-sense author, 'Intellect 
is but the half; the will is the driving wheel, the 
spring of motive power/ 

“There is a class of narrow wits who never suc- 
ceed for want of courage. Their understanding is 
of that kind which is unable to discriminate or sur- 
mount difficulties. 


THE SACRIFICE 


117 


“They do not know what force of character means. 
They seem to have no backbone, only the semblance 
of a vertebral column. Thus a great deal of unhappi- 
ness, and much of the vice, is owing to weakness of 
purpose.” 


CHAPTER THIRTEENTH. 


If marriage increases the cares it also brightens 
the pleasures of life. If it sometimes seems a hin- 
drance to success, in countless instances it is the in- 
centive which calls forth the best part of man's na- 
ture, rouses him from selfish apathy, and inspires in 
him generous principles and high resolves. 

Someone has said, “Marriage is a school, teaching 
the exercise of virtue, and, though marriage hath 
cares, yet single life hath desires which are more 
troublesome and more dangerous, and very often end 
in sin.” 

Though a great deal can be urged against hasty 
and injudicious marriages, still there is a time in the 
life of every individual when it would be a great 
deal wiser for him to marry than to remain single. 
There are some men whom we call “old bachelors.” 
We say they are selfish, cold-hearted, but once they 
were as warm-hearted and generous as anyone could 
be; they who once poured out their affections on 
those unworthy of them, the realization of which 


THE SACRIFICE 


119 


changed their whole nature; also some whom the 
world calls “old maids,” but who are wedded as truly 
to a tear-stained package as if it were the being it 
represents to them. These missives once belonged to 
him, in the old sweet days of yore. Years have 
passed, and nothing remains but the dear dream that 
never knew reality. 

Lewis, in his study, weighed and examined both 
sides, and finally, concluding that he, too, should con- 
template matrimony, but naturally, and in the style 
of common sense, said : “In the minds of all properly 
constituted individuals there exists the hope and ex- 
pectation of marriage.” 

Fully convinced that he had found one woman who 
entertained in her heart deep sympathy and love for 
him — one who, if he should be overtaken by misfor- 
tune, or if trials and temptations should beset him, 
would stand by him and sympathize, as most assur- 
edly, all through life, man needs a woman's love, 
one whose heart beats with the same truth and af- 
fection, in gladness and sadness, in storm or shine — 
after searching the secret chambers of his heart, he 
anxiously penned this missive: 

“Dear Miss Miller — I have just purchased tickets 
for Friday evening to see ‘Everywoman.’ I write to 
ask the honor of your company to witness this much- 


120 


THE SACRIFICE 


talked-of opera. Kindly favor me with an early re- 
ply. With much admiration, believe me 
“Your friend, 

“LEWIS.” 

The play was unquestionably the best, displaying 
woman in her pilgrimage of love. 

“Be merciful, be just, be fair to every woman, 
everywhere ; her faults are many, nobody's to 
blame.” 

“The majority of women shun truth and fail to 
find true love,” said Lewis. “Without this virtue 
there is no reliance upon language, no confidence in 
friendship, no security in promises. Truth needs 
nothing to help it out. Strict veracity requires some- 
thing more than merely the speaking of truth. There 
are lying looks, as well as lying words. The love of 
truth is the grand spring source of integrity.” 

“After all,” replied she, “the most natural beauty 
in the world is moral truth ; for all beauty is truth. 
Yes, nothing but truth can give us happiness. Every- 
thing must be governed by truth.” 

“Indeed, the habitual observance of truth is a 
bright and shining quality on the part of anyone who 
strives to make the most of life's possibilities,” said 
Lewis, 

“Modesty,” added Miss Miller, “also plays an ex- 
cellent part. Really, the lesson is great and true.” 


THE SACRIFICE 


121 


“Modesty,” said Lewis, “is the crowning ornament 
of womanly beauty. It gives grace to youthful fig- 
ures, and imparts a pleasing virtue to years. It 
softens the asperities of poverty, and is a beautiful 
setting for wealth.” 

“Yes, and it makes life pleasant to the one who 
exercises the virtue.” 

“And last, but not least, love,” gently spoke Lewis. 
“Love, in its purity, its unselfishness, is not only a 
consequence, but a proof of moral excellence,” con- 
tinued he. “As woman is not woman until she has 
known love, neither is man a complete man until 
he finds love. It is the melody of humanity.” 

Added Miss Miller: “The poet, Browning, says, 
‘All love renders wise in a degree.' ” 

“Yes,” answered Lewis, “the most gifted men 
have been the truest lovers. It inspires sympathy, 
mutual faith and confidence.” 

The couple were just back from the theatre and 
were discussing the play, when, presently, the hall 
clock chimed the hour of twelve, terminating their 
earnest discussion. 

“I honestly regret to leave good company,” con- 
tinued Lewis, “but the clock has bade me depart.” 

“I shall say au re voir, Mr. Ferry, trusting to see 
you again real soon.” 

“Thank you, my dear lady. I shall be delighted to 


122 


THE SACRIFICE 


call again on Sunday evening, if it is agreeable to 
you.” 

“Certainly it will be truly agreeable.” 

Back in his room, Lewis was full of hope and en- 
thusiasm. He had proven the powers of love. But 
he must have patience. For it is said that he who 
has patience can have what he will. There is no road 
too long to the man who advances deliberately and 
without undue haste. “If I take unto me a wife I 
hope to God that I shall be conscious enough to know 
what she is, and what she will be to me. Each day 
brings me nearer and nearer to her. She is doubt- 
less an exception in the feminine world. Yet, be 
still, my heart, the time shall come when your pal- 
pitation will be eased by true affection and devotion. 
Time, the great magician, will work its charms. 
Again, let me be patient. And to know how to wait 
is the great secret of success. Oh! of all lessons 
that humanity teaches, the hardest is to wait. True 
it is that the fruits that are best worth plucking 
usually ripen the most slowly.” 

Still, it is the tendency of all lovers to be in a 
hurry. But, because love is the best thing on earth, 
it is to be handled tenderly, for impatience kills it. 

In the wee hours of the morning Lewis was still 
awake. A thousand different thoughts harassed his 
mind. And as in a delirium he could see her, filled 


THE SACRIFICE 


123 


with sympathy, radiant with love, obedient with re- 
spect. 


CHAPTER FOURTEENTH. 


‘‘Punishment follows hard on crime.” 

Three years have elapsed. John and Edna are 
at home. 

This morning Edna is in the best of spirits, de- 
lighted with her gorgeous home, as she calls it. John 
wears a broad smile, and nothing is too hard or too 
strenuous for him, now that he is settled, and, as he 
puts it, with the “dearest and sweetest obtainable.” 

“Is there anything that I can do to help make the 
ball a greater success?” asked John. 

“I hardly think, love, that there is anything omit- 
ted.” 

“Good! Now my wish is to see you look your best 
tonight.” 

“Love, it shall be as you wish. All to please you, 
my precious,” encircling her arms around his neck 
in an ecstacy of kisses. 

John, reclining in his comfortable Morris chair, 


THE SACRIFICE 


125 


petted his wife and whispered endearing words that 
made Edna laugh aloud. 

“Oh, you are so jealous,” said she. “Have no fear. 
My love for you has increased tenfold, so much so 
that I cannot bear to be away from you, love. I 
miss you the very moment you are out of my sight. 
How happy I am, here in our palace. I was really 
lucky to capture you,” she said unintentionally, 
printing a fervent kiss on his waiting lips. 

Ah! nothing can compete with human deceitful- 
ness. Nothing can be more unjust than to play upon 
the belief of a confiding person, to make him suffer 
for his good opinion. A course of deception always 
defeats the true end of society. 

“Dovie,” remarked John, “I understand that Lewis 
and Miss Miller are staunch friends.” 

“Why, yes, he is attentive to her,” pausing in her 
reply and staring at the floor contemplatively. Quiet- 
ly and pleadingly she continued: “Love, dear, I 
sometimes think that this friend of yours is mys- 
terious, or, I dare say, funny. There is something 
unsound about the man, whom you admire and really 
love as much as you do me. But I know enough of 
human nature to detect distrustful persons. Why, 
whenever he sees me alone he looks at me with a dis- 
dainful look, or his countenance is stamped with the 
thought, the contemplation of evil.” 

“Stop! Hush!” interrupted John. “You are la- 


126 


THE SACRIFICE 


boring under the wrong impression. Lewis is just 
what you think him not to be — a true gentleman, a 
genius.” 

“Ha! you doubt me and will take up for him,” 
jumping from his lap in a fit of anger and raising 
herself to her full height. She spoke in tones of 
anger: “Understand, I’m not so easily deceived. I 
consider the purest atmosphere is contaminated into 
a deadly miasma wherever this evil genius obtrudes. 
I dread him; to me he is like the sting of a scor- 
pion. You shall see! Time will tell that he is a 
nettle destroying our peace.’ 

“Dearest wife, you speak cruelly and unknowingly. 
It is far wiser to take the more charitable view of 
our fellow-men. Life takes its hue in great degree 
from the color of our own minds. You have no rea- 
son for making these charges against Lewis.” 

“Stop! I shall impress you with the fact that un- 
less he is sent away from this place I will go. Do 
you understand? I will not permit myself to be 
scorned here or any other place.” 

“Remember, dear,” said John, “the people who are 
easily excited miss a great deal of happiness. Your 
temper will destroy your own comfort as well as that 
of your friends.” 

“Pshaw! Friends! I do not consider him such. 
True wisdom points the necessity of prudence at all 
times.” 


THE SACRIFICE 


127 


“Correct you are ; we should learn to command our 
feelings, and act prudently in all concerns of life. 
It will prepare us to meet emergencies with calmness 
and fortitude.” 

“I am prepared to act just as I see fit, sir. And 
again, hear me : Tonight is the ball. He will be here 
to make merry with us. I will be, as usual, civil to 
him, but tomorrow he must go. Or let him marry 
as you did, and settle down in his own home.” 

“Dearest,” and John, seeing that she meant every 
word of it, took her in his arms, half crying, half ca- 
ressing, “how can I drive my dear and tried friend 
from my home ? Oh ! for God's sake be considerate, 
be fair. He who has been so kind to me ! Go, dear,” 
and he endeavored to lead her to her boudoir. “Think 
it over, and you will feel that you are only angry 
with Lewis for some minor cause. Consideration is 
what you need to convince you that he is friend to 
both of us.” 

She extricated herself from his embrace, and 
faced him boldly. “You do not seem to have grasped 
my determination. I say, very imperatively, he shall 
depart. Tomorrow you must choose. Let him go 
and I will stay, or I will go and he shall stay.” She 
walked into her room and slammed the door behind 
her. 

“Never does a person betray his or her own char- 
acter more vividly than in his or her manner of por- 


128 


THE SACRIFICE 


traying another’s. Those who attempt to bring down 
and depreciate those who are above them do not ele- 
vate themselves thereby. He who indulges in slan- 
der is like one who throws ashes through the window, 
which come back to the same place and cover him all 
over.” 

Never speak ill of another, even with a cause. We 
all have our faults, and if we expect charity from the 
world we must be charitable ourselves. 

Give no heed to the infamous story handed you by 
a person known to be an enemy to the one he is de- 
faming. Never condemn your neighbor unheard, for 
there are always two sides to a story. It is a sign of 
a bad disposition to take pleasure in hearing ill of 
our friends. He who sells his friend’s credit at a low 
rate makes the market for another to buy his at the 
same rate. 

Remember, on many a mind and many a heart 
there are sad inscriptions engraved by the tongue of 
slander. They are more durable than the impression 
of the diamond on the glass, for the inscription of 
the diamond may be destroyed by a blow, but the 
impression on the heart will last forever. Know that 
it is always the best fruits that the birds pick at, 
that the wasp lights on the finest flowers, and slan- 
derers are like flies that overlook all a man’s good 
parts in order to alight upon his worst. 


THE SACRIFICE 


129 


Yet, most satisfactorily, truth, the child of time, 
ere long will appear to vindicate thee. 

Lewis emerged from the library, where he had 
been in deep study, and met John in the hall. 

“Good morning, Monsieur, how art thou?” 

“My dear friend, how do you feel ?” inquired John, 
pensively. 

Lewis immediately noticed the perplexed expres- 
sion in the sad smile of John. 

They walked out together, and John broke the si- 
lence. 

“Dear Lewis, do you not think that Edna is too 
deeply involved in the whirl of society ?” 

“John, society is beneficial if one knows the right 
principles and conduct.” 

“Why do you give me that answer? Do you have 
the least shadow of a doubt as to whether Edna 
knows the right principles of society?” 

“John, my dear friend, I do not feel that I can 
answer you. You should make it a point to find out.” 

Lewis excused himself, strolling out to his daily 
walk, out to the country for the pure and wholesome 
air. He never failed to respond to this ardent de- 
sire. On the way he pondered over many things. 
Said he, “I may have misjudged Edna, but it is only 
the shallow who strive to attract attention by pre- 
tentious claims. The ocean’s depths are mute; it is 


130 


THE SACRIFICE 


only along the shallow shores that the roar of the 
breakers is heard. It has been remarked that the 
modest deportment of the wise, when contrasted to 
the assuming air of the vain and ignorant, may be 
compared to the difference of wheat which, while its 
ear is empty, holds up its head proudly, but as soon 
as it is filled with grain bends modestly down and 
withdraws from observation. Therefore, I have lit- 
tle regard for those bold, frivolous, wicked and im- 
modest society characters. 

“What so quickly commands our good wishes and 
respect as modesty? It is the real ornament of 
womanly beauty, and the honor of manly powders. 
Why, yes, it is the key that unlocks the door of love 
and respect/' 

On and on he strolled. He seemed to have forgot- 
ten himself this morning, for he had traversed the 
meadow and was now near a lake among the cypress 
trees. Hark! He heard the bark of a dog. There, 
near him, stood a log cabin. He stopped and inquired 
who lived there, when a white-haired, famished look- 
ing old man appeared in the doorway and spoke ab- 
ruptly : 

“What do you say? Whom do you seek?" 

“I only wish for a drink of water, my kind sir." 

“Step right in, and I will refresh you." 

Lewis obeyed, and sat on a box by the door. 

The strange man, whose eyes were sunken and 


THE SACRIFICE 


131 


bloodshot, his hair long and white, his clothing neg- 
lected, giving Lewis a long and searching gaze, que- 
ried: “Where do you hail from, youngster?” 

“Sir, I am from the city.” 

“What canst thou seek out here in this God-for- 
saken place ?” in a voice that bespoke discontent. 

“The title does not become these beautiful sur- 
roundings and your hospitality. I am a believer in 
the Omnipotent and His works, and I find pleasure 
and rest out here. It enables me to think freely, and 
to deliberate clearly on a topic of much consequence.” 

“A topic of consequence?” muttered the hermit, 
fixing his eyes on the floor in deep thought. 

“I am endeavoring to solve the meaning, the pur- 
pose running through the tangled web of life,” spoke 
Lewis smilingly. 

“I see, indeed.” And seating himself on a bottom- 
less chair opposite Lewis, he cleared his throat, 
smoothed his long hair, then proceeded in a slow 
and pondering voice: 

“You have broached a problem that you can never 
solve now; but just too late, in your declining years, 
you will clearly see it all. At your age the future is 
but a phantom bright; the present stem and real; 
but you, yourself, shape the joy, the fear, the woe of 
which the coming life is made.” 

“My kind sir, I am really interested in you, be- 
cause you seem to be so full of experience. Please, I 


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implore you, tell me what the years have brought to 
you.” 

“Young enthusiast, your straightforwardness and 
honest face have touched a responsive chord, and my 
heart urges me to yield and tell you what some day 
may be beneficial to you. 

“Oh ! indeed, sir, it will please me to listen to your 
good words and try to profit by them.” 

“Oh ! Mon Dieu ! The heart of the past, and the 
dreams of today.” Waking as from a reverie, he 
spoke with much feeling: “Think ye, my young 
friend, that I cannot forget the past? My memory, 
though feeble, is still vivid with the scenes of my 
early days. Bear with me and I will relate my life, 
for it relieves me to pour out what is burdening me. 
Would that I had died rather than live with a bleed- 
ing heart and burning brain. 

“Many years ago I was happy with my good old 
mother in a pleasant home, from which I looked at 
life with a heart full of hope, building castles which 
faded long ago. It brings a bewitching strain from 
the harp of memory when I speak of the home that 
was the abode of affection. Now to the life of strife 
follow men. One evening, in a crowded ballroom, 
with its trailing silks and glittering jewels, where 
tireless feet tripped to the measure of its lively airs ; 
where the tremulous laugh, the restless eye, bespoke 
the feverish yearning of hearts beneath satins and 


THE SACRIFICE 


133 


laces, and suffocated with, the intoxicating perfume 
of vanity and frivolity, full of a fair dream of a 
roseate future, interwoven with love's magic art — 
there, in all this merriment and unrestrained pleas- 
ure, I met the ideal of my dreams, a picture of love- 
liness, an heiress, an enchantress. She captivated 
me, and it is useless to say that I was proud to be in 
captivity. Being a promising young attorney, with 
a future that was the envy of every man at the bar, 
I felt that the time had come when I should have 
a helpmate. It seemed that we had been made for 
each other, and to delay our union would mean much 
to both of us. I proposed, she accepted. We planned 
a matrimonial alliance in which we would live and 
labor and make every personal sacrifice with glad- 
ness, and that without each other we would not 
know how to live. 

“But alas! to my grief and disappointment, I was 
too easily captivated by a winning exterior. Each 
day brought the realization that I had trusted too 
much to the impulse of the heart. As discretion tem- 
pers passion, I found out, too late, that it was pre- 
cisely this quality which was absent in my courtship. 
Ah! young man, heed the voice of your conscience 
before you enter the bonds of wedlock. It is your 
wise counsellor. I was dazzled, infatuated ; it bewil- 
dered my imagination, and I overlooked the fact that 


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true affection required solid support. I had never 
given it a moment's consideration that, in the selec- 
tion of a wife, a pure, loving heart and good common 
sense are many times more valuable than personal 
beauty or wealth. 

“Unfortunately, I did not have sufficient moral 
stamina to enable me to resist the infatuation, the 
passion. She, likewise, did not possess that pure, 
uncontaminated feeling which alone capacitates a 
woman for rightly appreciating the loving nature of 
a husband. One year, and our home was a dismal 
abode. It lacked harmony ; it stood like a harp with- 
out strings. In form and outline, it suggested music, 
but no melody arose from the empty space, and thus 
it happened that my home was unattractive, dreary 
and dull. 

“The advent of a little cherub in our household 
inspired me with new hopes and plans, but — to make 
it still harder — she accused me of disliking the child. 
Oh! my God, how unjust it was! My dear child, if 
I could only see you, hear you say, ‘Father, I love 
you ; I shall take care of you, administer to your suf- 
ferings' " — there his voice faltered. He trembled 
from head to foot. Finally he composed himself and 
continued : “I must finish ; there's more to tell, but 
too painfully hard. I was not only deprived of the 
pleasure of being with her, but one night, on my 


THE SACRIFICE 


135 


return home, I found my poor mother half frantic 
and sobbing aloud. She informed me that my wife 
had left with another man, and had taken little Edna 
with them. And this was the note she left,” open- 
ing a little velvet case, and producing a sheet of 
paper yellow with age : 

" ‘I can no longer delude myself into the belief 
that I care for you. Our tastes are so opposite that 
our married life, under such circumstances, will not 
fail to result in unhappiness to both of us. Your 
ideas are centered in domestic quiet and repose, 
while my heart is set on the enjoyment of all the 
gaieties of life. When you review the occurrences 
of the past months, I am sure you will agree with 
me. I am leaving you and your hateful mother for- 
ever, and my only wish is to never be so unlucky as 
to see either of you again. 

“ 'Scornfully, I remain, 

“ 'JULIA.’ 

"Now, you see why my life is blighted. The ter- 
rible blow killed my poor mother, and it drove me 
mad, demented, to such an extent that I gave way 
to despair, abandoned my profession, became a wan- 
derer searching for my dear child. Year after year 
found me deeper in misery and age, so much so that 
I became a hater of humanity. Eventually, I found 


136 


THE SACRIFICE 


solace here in this deserted hut, and pray to the 
Savior of mankind to deliver me from this sad pre- 
dicament real soon. I can bear it no longer,” trem- 
bling like an aspen leaf, and lowering his head in 
anguish and pain. 

Lewis clasped his hands sympathetically. “My 
kind sir, arouse yourself. In your life you lacked 
discretion ; thus it is that you experienced what real 
sorrow was. Life is full of sorrowful scenes, so 
much so that it is sometimes unavoidable, and, under 
the guiding light of the present, it is easy enough 
to discover the mistakes of the past ; and it would be 
easy to make advantageous changes were we allowed 
to go back and commence anew in the journey of life. 
And, naturally, you live in remorse, regret. Still, 
there is not a human heart which has not felt its 
potency ; no age escapes it, and such will be the case 
as long as it is human to err.” 

“Ah! my shrewd thinker, I see that reflection is 
your good angel. Give heed to her warning voice, 
then will you live as becomes a man and immortal 
being. See me, my days are nearly ended. I think 
of the past and sigh for the days of youth. Ah ! ’tis 
sad. They will never come to me again.” 

“Kind sir, I shall heed the voice of experience, and 
thus escape the vain regrets of later years. Now, 


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137 


kind sir, how old was your child when your wife left 
you?” 

“Only five months. 0! memory, how it all comes 
back to me — her little ways and angelic voice that 
brightened my sad musings. That sweet little cry 
still rings in my ears.” 

Rising from his chair, the hermit walked to an 
old wornout trunk and drew from it a framed photo- 
graph, looked at it with eyes blurred and fiery — eyes 
that would have killed had they been pistols. He 
extended it to Lewis, saying: “This is the photo- 
graph of the woman who blighted my life.” 

Lewis held the picture in front of his face in order 
to hide the astonishment and sorrow in his eyes. 
“Oh! my God,” escaped from his lips, as he looked 
at this perfect likeness of Edna, the wife of his 
dearest friend. “Oh! John, John, you are lost. She 
will betray you, just as her mother did!” 

“Kind sir,” said Lewis, returning the photograph 
to the hermit. “Did you make a careful search 
here ?” 

“No one seemed to be able to give me light in my 
quest. My wife left with a man totally unknown to 
me ; consequently, I was at a loss to even get a clue.” 

Lewis buried his face in his hands, trying to think. 

“Did your wife have any relatives ?” 

“Yes, an aunt; but I never knew her whereabouts. 


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At the death of my wife’s mother this aunt left, and 
I never could locate her. I really believe she vteis 
instrumental in effecting the sudden disappearance 
of my wife. Ah ! young man, nothing can compete 
with human deceitfulness, the vanity, empty mock- 
ery of hollow-hearted society butterflies.” 

“Also, dear sir, you should say that the actions of 
impulsive people are very distasteful. To-day, they 
thoughtlessly act as their impulses lead them; to- 
morrow, they are full of regrets about the mistakes 
and blunders of yesterday.” 

“Correct, you speak the truth, my young philoso- 
pher. It is the love of approbation and not the con- 
science that enacts the part of a moral sense in this 
case. There are so many strange anomalies in 
human nature.” 

“My kind sir, I do regret to leave you, but I must 
depart. I should like to visit you again.” 

“Ah ! Indeed, it gives me pleasure, though I have 
lost the semblance of such a blessing. Come again. 
You are so thoughtful and learned. What makes you 
so sagacious? Where were you educated?” 

“By my good friends, the monks. Have I not told 
you my quest?” 

“God-speed — and may you never have to regret 
for inconsiderate actions.” 


CHAPTER FIFTEENTH. 


“Fools must be taught by the result.” 

Edna, gorgeously attired in a crimson frock of 
peau de soie, greeted her guests with much haughti- 
ness, eager to convince that she alone was mistress 
of this mansion. The ball was unspeakably beauti- 
ful; a grand affair socially, and a perfect success. 
The spacious and commodious mansion was veritably 
magnificent. Everything was there to make it a 
beauty and joy. John seemed so entertaining. Noth- 
ing pleased him more than to see all of his friends 
gathered in one great multitude, making merry, in 
his own beautiful home. 

Lewis and Miss Miller were earnestly involved in 
conversation, sitting among the palms and ferns in 
the conservatory. The lights were dim, of such a 
glow as to make it enchanting and peaceful. 

“I am fully convinced,” uttered he, after a pro- 
longed silence, “that marriage is the source from 
which originates the most beautiful glories of life; 


140 


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but if entered understanding^ and lived as becomes 
thoughtful human beings.” 

“Yes, marriage is a real affair,” replied she. “It 
abounds in homely details, and also deepest cares; 
consequently, it should never be entered into blindly. 
We should know that it is the selection of a life com- 
panion, one who must bear, suffer and enjoy life 
with us in all its forms as well as its smiles.” 

“You speak conscientiously and from your heart,” 
said he. “My dear little girl, the selection of a com- 
panion for life, as you said, one who will walk pleas- 
antly and confidingly by your side through all the 
intricate and changing vicissitudes incident to mortal 
life should be a matter of care.” 

She bowed her head in silence like a lily too heavy 
for its stem. 

He marshaled his feelings and irresistably spoke 
his admiration and deepest love, speaking softly, and 
encircling her waist with his arm. 

“My dear little lady, I feel that our hearts are 
bound, as well as our sentiments, in a holy unity, and 
that, for each other, we would labor and make every 
personal sacrifice with gladness, and that, without 
each other, we would know not how to live. Now, 
is it not our privilege — yes, our duty, to form a mat- 
rimonial alliance? We so often delight in discussing 
this topic. And, dearest,” pulling her closely to his 


THE SACRIFICE 


141 


side, “are we not certain that the summit of our 
hopes is to enter into a league of perpetual friend- 
ship, of love divine ?” kissing her warmly on the lips. 

She gazed beamingly into his eyes, pausing, study- 
ing. 

Embracing her, he begged her: “Speak, love, 
speak from your heart.” 

“I love you. How can I help it? You who have 
taught me what life really is, you who have taught 
me to love? Yes, I love you. It is the ruling element 
of my life,” said she, affectionately. 

“I thank you, love,” answered he, “and may there 
be nothing holier in this life of ours than our pure 
and true love for each other.” 

“Hark! Hush!” Suddenly they were awakened 
by the rustling of silks, as a woman slipped by them, 
followed by a man, and took seats near them, hidden 
behind the dense palms, instantly engaging in a hur- 
ried argument. Miss Miller peered through the palm 
leaves and recognized Edna. 

“Oh! dear,” exclaimed she, breathlessly, “it's 
Edna, with that man Blake, whom I have such a 
dread for.” 

Lewis peeped and witnessed Edna kissing and 
embracing the man. He flushed with anger and 
gasped for breath. 


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Miss Miller clung to him. “If you love me, dear, 
be still.” 

“How can I? My poor, innocent friend! Who 
shall avenge him? Ah! my doubts are confirmed.” 

Presently Edna and the man repaired to the draw- 
ing room, and Lewis and Miss Miller lost sight of 
them. 

Lewis was numb, and she observed tears in his 
large blue eyes. 

“Darling boy, do not agitate yourself. I shall 
speak to Edna; she has always been a careless and 
thoughtless girl. Oh ! it hurts me for both she and 
John. He seems to be so devoted to her.” 

“No, dear girl, this man will have to answer to me 
for his disgraceful conduct. The cur ! I shall make 
him realize that he is worse than a dog.” 

Deceit, which is cunningly laid and unworthily 
carried on, under the guise of friendship, is, of all 
others, the most detestable. There can be no greater 
treachery than first to raise a confidence and then 
to deceive it. John had confidence in Edna, but 
she deceived him with her smooth words and gra- 
cious manners. Alas! the time will come when she 
will be defeated. She will fare the worse. She will 
have to suffer for it. 

It is all in mad haste to stand well in the eyes of 


THE SACRIFICE 


143 


the public. They are prone to assume or sacrifice 
any virtue by which they may accomplish their self- 
ish ends. 


CHAPTER SIXTEENTH. 


“He who excuses himself accuses himself.” 

Every day gives us many lessons in life. Every 
feeling weaves a garment for the spirit. Every 
thought leaves its impression on the mind. Every 
passion plows a furrow in the soul. Therefore, it is 
our duty as moral beings so to guide and direct these 
feelings, thoughts and passions that they shall edu- 
cate us in the right direction. Furthermore, what 
manner of education are we receiving ? Is it in vice, 
folly, selfishness, deception or goodness and truth ? 

How sad for the vice of the age to substitute learn- 
ing for wisdom, to educate the head and forget that 
there is a more important education necessary for 
the heart. Many lose their balance of mind and be- 
come wrecks because they are in want of heart cul- 
ture. Is the head of more importance than the 
heart? Such, then, is the outline of the great prob- 
lem, “happiness.” Remember, much of the happi- 
ness of life, both here and hereafter, depends on 


THE SACRIFICE 


145 


how you meet its demands. You can, if you will it, 
grow apace in all that is manly or womanly in life, 
by neglecting the claims of your nature. Let the 
heart be opened, and a thousand virtues rush in. 
There is dew in one flower and not in another, be* 
cause one opens its cup and takes it in, while the 
other closes itself and the drop runs off. 

A fortnight after the grand ball, invitations were 
out for a reception to be given complimentary to 
Edna's guest, a young woman of her character. True 
it is that our character, habits and principles take 
their form and color from those of our intimate asso- 
ciates. 

At the Boston Club, the club which Lewis loved 
to frequent because of its pleasing and elevating in- 
fluence, and where he loved to linger and feel at home, 
he was conversing with a friend about the reception, 
when, presently and unceremoniously, a man joined 
them. Lewis immediately recognized him as the man 
who was with Edna in the conservatory at John's on 
the night of the ball. 

The scene became vivid to his memory, and he 
quickly invited them to the reading room, wishing 
from the depths of his heart that his friend might 
decline and the other might accept. Luckily, it hap- 
pened just as he wished it. 


146 


THE SACRIFICE 


“Literature upon a country is well-nigh incalcula- 
ble/' spoke Lewis, pleasantly. 

“Why, certainly," replied the other, “it molds the 
thoughts of a whole people. It is the soul of action, 
the only sensible articulate voice of the accomplished 
facts of the past. Its influence is very much like 
that of a companion to whom we are attached." 

“Hence," interrupted Lewis, “it is of much conse- 
quence to know what class to avoid. I think we 
should choose our books, as well as our friends, for 
their sterling and intrinsic merit." At the same time 
Lewis opened a book entitled “The Hypocrite." 
“Have you ever read this book, Mr. Blake ?" 

Mr. Blake opened his eyes in wonder when he 
noticed the title. 

“Why, no; but, really, I think I would like to read 
it. Is it really good?" 

“Yes, indeed; it covers the whole nature of a hypo- 
crite." 

“Honestly," replied Mr. Blake, “a man cannot be 
justified in deceiving and misleading his friends." 

“Still less," answered Lewis, “is he justified in try- 
ing to further his own passions and desires by break- 
ing the trust placed in him. Nothing is more unjust 
or cowardly than that." 

With a mocking smile, Blake replied : “Man is as 


THE SACRIFICE 


147 


naturally set on ambition or passion as the bee is to 
gather honey.” 

“Yes,” continued Lewis, “and in his mad haste he 
is heedless of the tide of evil which throbs in the 
soul, to his own condemnation and shame; and, 
though he may disguise the evil by artful words and 
a gracious bearing, still” (and Lewis stared at him 
with eyes of fire) “it is there, and the effect is as dire- 
ful as though the expression was open and plain 
to all.” 

Mr. Blake fancied himself suspected by Lewis, and 
begged to be excused, as he had an appointment with 
a dear friend. 

Lewis sprang before him and faced him boldly, 
saying: “Beware, beware, I say to you. You are 
playing a role of deception; and unless you cease, 
you will live to repent and to suffer. I know you, 
and my sole desire is to put a stop to your effront- 
eries. Do you understand?” 

Mr. Blake glanced at Lewis with a sneer and a 
grin of sangfroid, saying : “Why should you meddle 
in what in no way concerns you?” 

“The reputations of my dearest friends are at 
stake, and it is my duty, as a gentleman, to defend 
them,” replied Lewis. 

“Au revoir,” answered Mr. Blake, sneeringly, and 


148 


THE SACRIFICE 


he quickly passed out, leaving Lewis alone with his 
thoughts. 

Anger is the most impotent passion that accom- 
panies the mind of man. What crimes have not been 
committed in paroxysms of anger ? Has not a friend 
murdered a friend ? The son massacred his parent ? 
The creature blasphemed his Creator? Bear in mind, 
my dear readers, man was born to reason, to reflect, 
and to do all things quietly and in order. Consider, 
then, how much more you often suffer from your 
anger than from those things for which you are 
angry. 


CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH. 


“The last day has come, and the inevitable doom.” 

Love and courtship should be to wedded love what 
a blossom is to the perfected fruit. The flower of 
this love must be measured, not by its intensity, but 
by its effects ; by its beneficence in bringing into play 
a higher range of motives ; by its skill in harmonizing 
different natures. Of nothing are people more igno- 
rant than of human nature. Not once in a hundred 
times do two natures, brought side by side, har- 
monize in every part. Very rich and fruitful natures 
are often side by side with very barren ones; noble 
ones with those which are sordid. This is a conse- 
quence to be foreseen from the want of thought 
evinced by people when about to marry. Many coun- 
sel the young not to expect too much from love. That 
is an evil philosophy. Happiness in this life depends 
more upon the capacity of loving than of any other 
quality. If you lose all the treasures of love, it does 
not prove that the treasure is not to be found, but 
that you have not sought aright. 


150 


THE SACRIFICE 


Lewis and his fiancee talked in whispers under the 
moonlight, seated on the rustic bridge which spanned 
the picturesque lake in the grounds surrounding the 
Miller estate. They were discussing the entrance to 
scenes of happiness and contentment. Ah! that 
sweet and dreamy threshold of unseen temples, 
where half the world has paused in couples, passed 
on, but never returned. 

It becomes all young men and women who are 
standing where the radiant beams of love are begin-* 
ning to gild the pathway before them to endeavor 
to ascertain whether the person he or she proposes 
to unite their destiny to is the one with whom they 
are best adapted to make the journey. If they are 
convinced that the choice is wise, then they may 
proceed with confidence to take upon themselves the 
privileges of the marriage relation. Then marriage 
will be a blessing, rather than a bitter curse, for an 
ill-mated human pair is the most woeful picture of 
wretchedness that is presented in the book of life; 
and yet, such pictures are plenty. 

“Dearest, you shall name the day — the occasion 
of our greatest day — our wedding day. Won't you ?” 
questioned Lewis. 

With love-light in her eyes, and a smile upon her 
lips, she answered: 


THE SACRIFICE 


151 


“Yes, I shall name the day. Dearest, let it be the 
25th of May, mother's birthday." 

“Good,” said he; “it shall be on that day.” 

Ah! how happy was this couple who had studied 
each other and realized that they had been made for 
each other ; that God had willed it, and that true hap- 
piness was their aim in this wide and wonderful 
world. 

A great deal has been said about unhappy mar- 
riages, but let us not forget that this union will be 
an exemplary one, because a judicious wife is con- 
stantly exerting an influence for good over the hus- 
band, and this was Miss Miller's aim, and her chief 
point was, and all candid persons will so readily 
admit this: that marriage speedily becomes a school 
for the exercise of virtue, and is the source of many 
of the best qualities in the life of man or woman. 

Lewis left his fiancee doubly happy; his own heart 
was joyful because she had named their wedding day, 
joyful because she was the right sort of woman for 
his life partner, and he could expect naught but hap- 
piness with her. 

On reaching home, his first impulse was to tell 
John of his good fortune, and how happy he was 
now that she had nairned the day. Every thought 
every action, seemed to be for her. How prosperous 
he had been ! God, in His mercy, had provided for 


152 


THE SACRIFICE 


him. He was delighted with his worthy claim. It 
was gained by diligent application. 

The comfortable Morris chair on the veranda, un- 
der the sweet-scented wistaria, seemed to invite him 
to sit a while and think over his good luck. Accept- 
ing the invitation, he reclined and called upon mem- 
ory to picture his successes, as well as his failures. 
Happiness is a mosaic composed of many small 
stones. Each, taken apart and viewed singly, may 
be of little value ; but when all are grouped together, 
judiciously, and set, they form a design of priceless 
value, a blessing, a graceful whole, a costly jewel. 
After all, to be happy, you must determine to accept 
life cheerfully in whatever form it may come, and 
seek for good under all circumstances. 

Gradually, his thoughts took flight and went back 
to the old Monastery, to the home of virtue, also his 
dear mother. How it all came back to him, not with 
a grudge, nor remorse, but with a feeling that made 
him sad in his happiness, because he missed them, 
both his mother and the Abbot. He felt as if some- 
thing was wanting to complete his happiness. Still, 
in his heart, from the very depths, he also experi- 
enced a feeling of joy in the sadness of his memories. 
Nevertheless, he would hope for the best. 

Human life has not a surer friend than hope. How 


THE SACRIFICE 


153 


many would die did not hope sustain them ! A strong 
mind always hopes, and always has cause to hope. 

Suddenly he was startled from his reverie by a 
sharp noise, as of some one trying to turn a key in 
the door lock. He quietly leaned forward and recog- 
nized Mr. Blake, Edna's lover. He quickly stood up, 
to find the man gone. Tiptoeing to the door, he 
found it unlocked. Entering, he noiselessly locked 
it, and stood there in the hallway trying to solve the 
swift disappearance of the intruder. 

How he wished for John to tell him, so that they 
could find out this scoundrel and vile creature. But 
he knew that John was out and would not come in 
until late. What must he do ? Stay there and wait, 
or go after the cur? He was evidently in Edna's 
room, for the dim light in her room indicated that 
there was some one with her in secrecy. 

As we watch the different vicissitudes of life, we 
are reminded of the frailty of human hopes and aspi- 
rations. As the leaves of a tree, once flourishing, 
once verdant, lose their vitality and finally waste 
away, so is it with our desires and anticipations. Be 
not dismayed at the trials of life; they are sent for 
our good. Life, all sunshine without shade, all hap- 
piness without sorrow, all pleasure without pain, 
were not life — at least, not human life. The severer 
trials of life call into exercise the latent faculties of 


154 


THE SACRIFICE 


the soul of man. They are for the purposes of put- 
ting his manhood to the test. They may be hard to 
take, though they strengthen the soul. Tonics are 
always bitter. We must first learn to mourn and feel 
before we can know and think. 

Lewis repaired to his room in dismay, sat on his 
bed with his face buried in his hands, trying to figure 
out the outcome of this treachery — and vice. 

We should remember, when borne down by the 
sorrows and trials of life, that they are sent to us 
only for our instruction, even as we darken the cages 
of our birds when we wish them to sing. 

Presently, a harsh laugh awakened him. He 
rushed to the door and listened. There he plainly 
heard Edna laugh — and he emerged from his room, 
walking lightly to John's room, adjoining Edna's. 
There he was, with the madness of a lion, ready to 
spring upon his prey. 

A man of true feelings fires up naturally at base- 
ness of any sort, even in cases where he may be 
under no obligation to speak out. 

In his decision as to what step to take, he heard 
John entering into Edna’s room. She and her gay 
admirer were too happy and joyful to hear his foot- 
steps. Lewis made an attempt to go and stop him 
from entering, but too late — too late. John had 
opened the door and found them out. The surprise 


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155 


was so intense, the revealment so strong-, that, before 
he could think, he pulled out his revolver and fired, 
rushing on them. At the same time, Blake escaped 
into John's room, unharmed, and flew for his life. 
John, half-crazed, pursued him. In the meantime, 
Lewis had followed Blake in hot pursuit, but John, 
believing that Lewis was the man, fired again. Lewis 
walked toward John and fell wounded. 

The servants of the mansion rushed to the scene 
and found Edna dead. The bullet had penetrated 
her skull. John, blind with rage, pounced upon 
Lewis, believing that he had killed the guilty man, 
when he discovered that it was Lewis, his friend. 

Oh! God! Friendship, esteem, were swept away 
as if by a whirlwind, and this brief bit of anger had 
wrecked the home of happiness which years had 
been cementing. 

Like a man crazed, his eyes blood-shot, his face 
death-stricken, John clutched Lewis around the 
throat, screaming: “Ah! you scoundrel! You whom 
I have befriended, sheltered ; you had my trust, my 
confidence ! What are you ? Answer me ! What are 
you?" 

John's valet rushed to him, and tried to extricate 
him from his grasp. It was useless. 

He cried out again — frantically — his whole form 
shaking in wild madness : “Let me kill him ! Sure, 


156 


THE SACRIFICE 


he is not dead. He betrayed me, and ruined my hap- 
piness, ruined my home, deceived me. Let me end 
it all.” 

The valet summoned the servants to assist him, 
and finally they loosened his grasp and held him 
back. Lewis, suffering, could not speak ; his tongue 
was stiff, his teeth locked. Sad accidents and a state 
of affliction are schools of nature. Some natures are 
like grapes: the more they are trodden, the richer 
tribute they supply. 

Who could have foreseen, just one hour ago, this 
household, known as the abode of merriment and 
laughter, would now be the home of sorrow and 
murder? 

Just then a little voice was heard crying 
hysterically, “Mamma, where are you? Me can’t 
sleep.’ 

John rushed to the child, his hands clenched, his 
eyes glaring and seeing only foul motives. He rough- 
ly grasped the child’s arm, shaking it violently, ex- 
claiming in his excitement: “You call for your 
mamma! your mamma,” and he laughed aloud. Yes, 
the laugh of treachery and contempt. He was now 
out of himself. His mind was full of revenge. He 
wanted to kill. What cared he? He was mad, mad, 
out of his senses completely. It was useless to argue 
with him now. His confidence had been betrayed. He 



“Too Young to Understand.” 





THE SACRIFICE 


157 


would never again trust a human being. He hated 
everything — even himself, for being so foolish and 
blind to all these tricks played in his own household. 
Again he laughed at the little child. His own little 
Edna, scarcely past her third birthday; a perfect 
image of her mother, but like her father in disposi- 
tion. She had been awakened by the shooting and 
screams of the servants, and slipped out of bed look- 
ing for her mother. 

“There is your damned mother," brutally pushing 
her over her mother's lifeless body. 

“I will kill you, too, and then blow my brains out. 
End it all. That's what I'll do," and he paced the floor 
excitedly, moaning and laughing at random. 

His valet tried to talk to him, but it only made 
matters worse. He would not listen to anything. 

Little Edna had entwined her arms around her 
mother's neck, and, with tears streaming down her 
plump rosy cheeks, lifted her little innocent face to 
her father and cried : “Me can't wake her up. Daddy, 
mamma is dead. Me can't wake her up. Come, daddy, 
let's put mamma in bed." 

This rekindled his anger instead of touching his 
heart; the responsive chords of pity and love had 
turned to hate in all its strength. He only wanted to 
destroy everything that was once dear to him. 

Turning upon his little child, he caught her by the 


158 


THE SACRIFICE 


arms, and whispered meaningly: “I'm not your 
daddy. There he is,” pointing to Lewis, as he lay on 
the floor. 

Little Edna only stared at her father blankly, too 
young to understand. 

John braced up again, and picked little Edna up, 
saying aloud: “I'll drown you in the river, then I'll 
jump in, too. Yes, God, if there is a God, I'll end it 
all to-night.” 

The valet, hearing this, screamed for help, and 
rushed to the telephone, but John pointed his re- 
volver at him and said : “I'll kill you, too, if you touch 
that phone,” and he jumped into his car and drove 
away to the river to carry out his threat. 

The valet immediately called two of the men serv- 
ants and Edna's maid, rushed to the garage, got into 
Edna's car and drove to the river where he supposed 
John was. On and on they sped until the wharf was 
reached. At a distance ahead of them they could 
plainly discern John. They could see him tearing up 
little Edna's night-gown and casting it away. They 
rushed on him, but he quickly covered them with his 
gun, warning them thus: “You damn fools, if you 
make one more step I'll shoot every one of you ; hear 
me?” 

He had removed his coat, and little Edna was 
standing near him, nude, shivering and crying. He 


THE SACRIFICE 


159 


excitedly dropped his gun and raised her above his 
head in an effort to throw her into the deep waters 
of the river, when the servants rushed on him and 
held his arms, while the maid snatched little Edna 
from him. 

He fought savagely, tried to extricate himself, but 
they held him and bound him fast with their belts. 
They rushed back into the car and speeded back to 
the mansion. John was placed in his library, with 
hands and feet strapped. The valet summoned Dr. 
Harris and asked him to quiet John until he would 
regain his senses ; also begged him not to let any one 
find out about the terribly tragic affair. Everything 
was kept a secret. No one was to get wind of this 
terrible crime, owing to the prominence of John and 
Lewis. 

Dr. Harris promised to be silent on the subject. 
He also administered to Lewis, assuring the servants 
that he was seriously wounded, but there was fair 
chance of his recovery. 

“In the assurance of strength there is strength. 
Men often conquer difficulties, because they think 
they can. Their confidence in themselves inspires 
confidence in others. Such men are possessed of 
manly character and wisdom.” 

All difficulties come to us, like the lion which met 
Samson ; the first time we encounter them they roar 


160 


THE SACRIFICE 


and gnash their teeth, but once subdued we find a 
nest of honey in them. 

It is an old saying, “He who has lost confidence 
can lose nothing more.” 

Lewis relied upon the good name he had made by 
his own exertions, and knew that his best friend, 
in this hour of trial, was governed by uncon- 
querable determination of spirit united with deci- 
sion of character. He knew that Heaven would help 
him. He would be prudent, would know when to 
speak and when to be silent. When you have need of 
a needle you move your finger with a wise caution; 
use the same prudence with the inevitable affairs of 
life; give attention, and keep yourself from undue 
precipitation, otherwise the world will treat you 
badly. 


CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH. 


“I shot an arrow in the air; 

It fell on earth, I know not where. 

I breathed a song into the air; 

It fell on earth, I know not where. 

Long, long afterwards, in an oak, 

I found the arrow, still unbroke, 

And the song, from beginning to end, 

I found again in the heart of a friend.” 

(Longfellow. 

Lewis, in a critical condition, was confined in the 
hospital, but the attending surgeon said there was 
hope. He was silent ; not a word could be gotten from 
him with regard to the tragedy. The physician had 
forbidden any interview. 

John had di^ppeared. No one knew of his where- 
abouts. It was rumored that he had gone to the 
wharf during the night and jumped into the river. 
In reality, no one really knew what had become of 
him. 

But, no, John had not committed suicide, as was. 


162 


THE SACRIFICE 


suspected by everyone ; he had left the city and was 
trying to go far away — seeking peace of mind and 
heart. 

What was he now? A voice from his soul per- 
sistently answered: "A murderer !” What was life 
to him, now? All that he loved had been destroyed. 
His heart bled. His head seemd as if it were burst- 
ing ; his whole body was sick. “Oh, God !” he would 
cry, blankly. His mind was wandering and he did not 
possess any more courage and strength to brace up 
and overcome this downfall. He had left home with a 
curse on his lips and had abandoned everything. He 
would never enter that house again. His whole for- 
tune was forgotten. Of what good was it to him 
now? Could gold buy happiness? Would riches 
bring back contentment? 

The spirit of discouragement and discontent is 
very unfortunate, wicked as well as weak; it is 
paralyzing and destructive. 

Ah! his was a wretched lot — truly miserable. 
Would he live only to lament and repine ? 

Gradually he drifted into despondency. Deeper 
and stronger did it grow, until he was given up to it. 
No more pride — a mere drunkard, a frequenter of 
dives and slums. Drink — drink — drink ! The stronger 
it was the more he seemed to relish it. On and on he 
traveled, going somewhere, trying to forget. 


THE SACRIFICE 


163 


Though he may wander the wide world over, 
gather wealth and fame, they will be found impotent 
to confer happiness, and life to him will seem full 
of disappointments; but it is so simply because he 
failed to seek happiness in that spirit of quiet content 
which alone conducts us to its portals. 

He had failed. He had worked hard and felt alive 
and patient — always hoping for the best. Now, he 
was dead to the world. He could never trust another 
man or woman. He could aspire no more. The blow 
had made him a mere child, helpless. 

He was too weak to rise superior to ill fortune. He 
could only deplore his lot, and sank deeper and 
deeper into despondency, until time alone would tell 
the end. 

“Time is the rider that breaks youth. ,, How bright 
the world appeared — how full of novelty, enjoyment 
and pleasure it had all looked to John in the days of 
his youth. But as years passed on he found it to 
abound in sorrowful scenes. Happy they who can 
pass through such trials with cheerfulness and stand 
erect beneath the heaviest burdens. He could not en- 
dure it. He would never forget it. Those days of 
anguish ! And no one to sympathize with him. 

His brain was full of imaginings. He was giving 
up to despair. The awful calamity had produced a 
paralysis of his mind. His mental power was frozen 


164 


THE SACRIFICE 


with indifference ; his heart had become ossified with 
melancholy; his soul was shrouded in a cloud of 
gloom. No words of consolation, no cheerful repartee 
could break the deathlike feeling. No love could warm 
the pent-up heart. 

Little Edna was unaware of the meaning of the 
disturbance which had taken place in her father’s 
house. Poor little soul, she was too young to know. 
She only asked for him now and then, inquiring of 
Miss Miller, who had taken her in charge: “Where 
is my papa? He was mean to me last night. What 
did he do with my mamma? Is my poor mamma 
dead? I heard Dick say so” (referring to John’s 
valet). “I want my daddy and my mamma,” her lips 
trembling and her eyes filled with tears. “Why did 
daddy want to throw me in the river? I was cold 
when he took my gown off. I told him so, but he 
said: 'Shut up, I say.’ 

“Daddy is good to me. I love my daddy. Where is 
he? I want him.” 

Miss Miller could not answer this little unfortunate 
and forsaken child. Her own heart was heavy, and 
words choked her. She merely pressed little Edna to 
her bosom and kissed her tenderly. 

It would seem fitting that nature should exempt 
little children from such trials. Miss Miller only 
meditated on the present state of affairs. She vowed 


THE SACRIFICE 


165 


upon her soul that she would train little Edna in 
such a manner as to enable her to expect and look 
to the only true source for aid and assistance for the 
trials that were in store for her. 

How fleeting is the happy and innocent guileless- 
ness of childhood! The years as they come bring 
with them intelligence and experience, but they take 
with them, in their resistless course, the innocent 
pleasures of childhood's years. 

That night, as Miss Miller caressed her, and heard 
her prayers, little Edna thoughtfully said: “I will 
pray to the little infant Jesus to please bring back 
my mamma to me. I miss her so much," and, con- 
tinuing, she recited in her sweet childish voice, 
“Little Jesus, won't you bring back my mamma? 
Daddy was mean to her, but he will be sorry. I'm all 
alone now — I don't know where my daddy is. But, 
little Jesus, I’m a good little girl, and I love you, so 
please don't forget. You will find mamma with the 
angels, 'cause Miss Miller told me so. She says 
mamma is watching over me. Tell her that I'm so 
lonesome and want to kiss her good-night." Ponder- 
ing a while, she recited again : “Oh ! I forgot — tell my 
mamma that daddy wanted to drown me in the big 
river last night, and I was so scared. Don’t forget, 


now. 


CHAPTER NINETEENTH. 


‘‘If we could only forget.” 

“Well, how is my patient this morning?” inquired 
the doctor of Lewis. 

“Doctor, I feel less pain; I feel that I shall re- 
cover.” 

“Yes, yes. You will soon be able to go about.” Sud- 
denly changing the tone of his voice he continued: 
“By the way, that little lady friend of yours is quite 
a brilliant little woman. She is a capable nurse. She 
proved to be quite efficient. Your speedy recovery is 
greatly due to her attention and careful nursing.” 

“Yes, doctor, she is a very dear friend of mine. It 
certainly pleases me to hear you speak well of her.” 

“Well,” said the doctor, “you will soon be able to 
leave the hospital, and I would suggest that you so- 
journ out West for several months. You need rest, 
you are in danger of having a nervous break-down.” 

“Yes, doctor, I shall follow your advice. I expect to 
go to California.” 


THE SACRIFICE 


167 


Just then the door of the room opened noiselessly 
and Miss Miller entered with her mother and little 
Edna. 

“Good afternoon," said she, as she pressed his 
hand tightly. 

“How is our patient? asked Mrs. Miller of the 
doctor. Little Edna busied herself with her doll, 
which Miss Miller had just purchased for her. 

Lewis' face brightened as he spoke softly: “I feel 
better. Dearest," he addressed Miss Miller, “Dr. 
Harris wants me to go West for several months." 
Noticing the anxious countenance of his fiancee he 
gently continued: “And, dearest, you must come 
with me. We shall be married as soon as I'm able to 
leave the hospital. Oh! God, I feel happy at the 
thought of such bliss. But, dearest, think of the 
wretchedness of my dear friend John. God only 
knows what will become of him. If I were only able 
to find him and comfort him. Poor old pal." 

“Do not agitate yourself, my darling," said she. 
Everything will end well. Only be patient and trust 
in God. He, in his almightiness, will soften all these 
trials." 

“Poor little Edna," observing her near his bed. 
“Poor little innocent child. You will live with us. We 
will love you, and never let you know the agony that 
we are undergoing for your mother's sin." 


168 


THE SACRIFICE 


“Hush, compose yourself,” said Miss Miller. “Let 
us forgive and forget, for the present. Look at these 
beautiful roses I brought you,” pointing at a vase on 
the table nearby filled with American Beauties. 

“Thank you, sweetheart. You are so kind and 
thoughtful.” 

Two weeks afterwards they were quietly married, 
and, everything being ready for the trip, they left 
immediately for California. 


CHAPTER TWENTIETH. 


“Many years have passed and brought many 
changes.” 

“Darling, do you not think it best for us to inquire 
into Edna's intimacy with Harold Lansing? He 
seems so devoted to her, and she also seems to be 
quite attached to him,” asked Helen of her husband, 
Lewis, who was comfortably reclining in his Morris 
chair. 

“Yes, dear wife, it is fair to both of them.” 

“Edna is now eighteen years old. Praise and 
thanks to God for helping us rear her in truth and 
virtue. She is a woman of true intelligence, admired 
in her circle of friends and high society.” 

“Yes,” continued Lewis, “there is a beautiful har- 
mony about her character that at once inspires the 
respect which soon warms into love. Her moral worth 
holds man in some restraint, and prevents him from 
becoming inhumanly corrupt.” 

“Very well said, my dear husband. Now, I shall re- 


170 


THE SACRIFICE 


pair to the drawing-room and you join us there. Then 
Edna and I will go out into the garden, while you 
broach the subject to Harold.” 

“My dear boy, we all scorn busybodies, who are 
constantly meddling in what in no way concerns 
them, when they hasten to lay before others the 
fruits of their investigations and so, at length, the 
happiness of some home circle is destroyed by the 
malicious poison-giving officiousness of busybodies. 
Now listen attentively to me, Harold. I have the 
greatest regard for you. You are an exemplary young 
man, and I feel proud to have you call on Edna ; con- 
sequently, I venture to make inquiries with this ex- 
planation that parents or guardians should be judi- 
cious. I wish to ask you to reply to me thoughtfully 
and confidently. Do you love Edna with a pure, un- 
selfish and discreet affection? Are you thoroughly 
assured that you are fully prepared to enter into 
matrimony? Let me read this little poem to you.” 
Opening the book that he held in his hands Lewis 
read slowly: 

“ ‘Life without love — oh ! it would be 
A world without a sun; 

Cold as the snow-capped mountain, dark 
As myriad nights in one ; 

A barren scene, without one spot 


THE SACRIFICE 


171 


Amid the waste, 

Without one blossom of delight, 

Of feeling or of taste.' ” 

He then folded the book and looked deeply into 
Harold's face, all radiant and bespeaking joy and 
honesty. 

“Mr. Ferry, I am really sorry, and feel ashamed of 
myself, for being so negligent as not to have spoken 
to you ere this about my engagement to Edna, the 
queen among women. I love her with a love that 
cannot be measured, and her love for me has 
strengthened me and ennobled my character. It has 
given me higher motives and a nobler aim to every 
action of my life. I love her truly and devotedly ; she 
has promised to marry me and, with your sanction 
and Mrs. Ferry’s approval, we shall name the day in 
the near future." 

“Harold, you have spoken manfully, and I shall 
suggest that you deliberate on this important subject 
a while longer, and then we will announce your en- 
gagement." 

“I thank you, Mr. Ferry, for your kindly interest 
in our happiness, and I assure you again that I will 
devote my life to making Edna happy." 

Presently Edna and her foster-mother entered the 
room, and their presence terminated the discussion. 


172 


THE SACRIFICE 


Dear fathers and mothers, when you read this do 
not let it escape your memory, that very much of 
the unhappiness in this world is due to your careless- 
ness and lack of interest in your son’s or daughter’s 
love affairs. Now, do not get the wrong impression; 
I mean that you should help them to discriminate 
and make the proper investigation as to the char- 
acter and disposition of their life partner before they 
are to be married, as this is not for a month or a 
year, but for life. Do not advocate divorce. A well- 
constituted man or woman cannot leave one wedded 
love for another. He or she will never be happy. 

Can a man or woman be happy to look back on 
days spent with their divorced love, whether they 
be days of joy or anguish? The man or woman 
who will tell you that he or she is happy divorced 
and married to another is speaking merely from the 
lips. They are not happy, because the heart of a 
divorced man or woman is full of feelings that can- 
not be forgotten. Only death can put assunder what 
God hath joined together. Is the human heart to be 
trampled upon and broken, and then mended and 
made happier? 

No; no one can heal the wound in the heart made 
by the indiscretion and cruelty of another. There 
will always come a time in your hour of meditation 
when memory will recall to you the days misspent, 


THE SACRIFICE 


173 


and you are bound to experience a sad pleasure in re- 
calling days of sadness — hence, you cannot be happy 
by marrying again while your first love lives. There- 
fore, I say to you again that a young girl or man who 
loves to look back upon the direction and counsel of 
a wise father and a faithful mother will seldom do an 
unworthy or unjust act. The remembrance of a 
happy home is theirs — a home of purity, of a father's 
and mother's upright example and undying love, 
there will rarely be found reasons or causes for 
divorce. 

A good Woman, who respects herself, will have a 
set purpose in life — some supreme aim, grand in its 
character. She should, in the first place, know what 
she is, what influence is to go out from her, what 
duties are resting upon her. When she has considered 
these things, she should then form the high purpose 
of being a true woman. She should be a devout wor- 
shiper and a true Christian. Let her love truth and 
virtue instead of fashionable vices and folly. A good 
man should respect himself, also. He should never 
glory in that which is common to a beast; nor that 
which is common to a fool; nor that which is com- 
mon to a wicked man. 

Remember, it is thinking, not growth, that makes 
perfect manhood or womanhood. 

Do not be too prone to take beauty and words in 


174 


THE SACRIFICE 


lieu of actions. Do not be impressed with good 
clothes and a fine figure before you inquire into the 
character of the individual. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-FIRST. 


“In the reproof of chance lies the true proof of men/' 

Fifteen years gone by, and not the slightest in- 
formation about John. It was now generally sup- 
posed that he was dead. 

Although Lewis had made thorough searches and 
inquiries, not one trace was found. His whole fortune 
had been taken over by Lewds, who had carefully 
guarded it, and was making the necessary and lawful 
arrangements to have it transferred to Edna before 
her wedding day. 

Lewis was a different man. The terrible calamity 
of years ago had constantly worked heavily on his 
mind. He could not understand why John had not 
listened to him. Why was he to undergo this unhap- 
piness ? 

Dark and full of disappointments had been John’s 
lot, but he was unable to fathom the reasons for 
them. If he could only have brought himself to see 


176 


THE SACRIFICE 


that they were for his own good, that he needed this 
chastening influence. No, he had invited defeat by 
giving way to disappointment. It is, therefore, the 
better philosophy to take things calmly and endeavor 
to be content with your lot. 

Though we may wander the world over and gather 
wealth and fame, they will be found impotent to con- 
fer happiness. 

Yes, fifteen years, then Time, the great consoler of 
the world, was healing John’s sorrows and making 
the trials seem way in the distance. Far away, in 
Mexico, he had found solace. Though broken-hearted 
through the years, and bent in grief and agony, he 
had prospered and amassed a large fortune in oil 
fields. 

The days of anguish and illness and nights of deso- 
lation had whitened his hair, which was once jet 
black. His face had the lines of one who was suffer- 
ing intensely. His disposition was now stern and 
severe; he was money-mad. He loved the almighty 
dollar, and trusted no one. He had forgotten his 
God. His investments had brought him millions, and 
now what was he to do with it? 

He was living under the assumed name of Carlos 
Rodriguize, and had tried in every way to lose his 
identity. 


THE SACRIFICE 


177 


As he examined his morning mail he happened to 
see a bundle of newspapers addressed to him from 
New Orleans. Merely through curiosity he opened 
the bundle and glanced at the title pages. There, in 
big black letters, was printed: “Red Cross Drive a 
Big Success, Through the Effort of Mr. Lewis Ferry, 
Chairman, and his Protegee, Miss Edna Russell, and 
Harold Lansing, to Whom She Is Engaged to Be Mar- 
ried in May.” 

His heart suddenly felt numb, and his head ached 
with pain. His whole system was affected, and he felt 
the influence of memory, remorse, sacrifice. This 
sudden change was inexplicable; he could not think 
of anything else but this sacrifice, the revival of lost 
feelings. Something seemed to whisper: “You are 
wrong. Repent, and you will be happy. Forgive and 
be forgiven.” He drifted into lonesomeness; he 
needed sympathy and love. He would roam about the 
oil fields and plains, would go up the mountains and 
watch the red glowing sun sink in the West. Oh! 
God, how miserable it was. He remembered so clearly 
how he had enjoyed going home to seek his loved 
ones, how he loved to caress his own little baby girl. 
Though his wife and best friend had deceived him, 
was the little child to blame? Everything imaginable 
presented itself and made him regret. 

He longed for the kisses and tenderness of his little 


178 


THE SACRIFICE 


girl. He could picture her before him, teasing him 
and making him forget his cares and trials. Again 
and again he would mumble, “The sacrifice, my dar- 
ling little girl.” His head bent forward and he gave 
vent to sobs, and tears glistened in his longing eyes. 
He knelt there on the mountain side and, reaching 
for his pocketbook, opened it nervously, casting to 
the winds in every direction to currency and gold 
that it contained, and kept the little “souvenir” 
miniature crucifix, which Lewis had given him on his 
wedding day, raised it heavenward and cried: “Oh! 
my God.” 

“The Sacrifice. Forgive me, oh ! Lord, and give me 
strength to forgive. It is killing me, God. I can resist 
no longer. I’m unhappy with all this gold and wealth. 
Take it all, destroy it, but give me peace of mind. I 
have been cruel and have sinned shamefully. I am 
sorry for my crimes, and wish to expiate my sins, 
with a firm resolution to sin no more. Help me, Lord, 
to go back to my child, and find comfort, sympathy 
and love. Only you, my God, knows what I have suf- 
fered.” 

Regret, if deep and constant, becomes remorse, 
which settles over the heart with a crushing weight, 
driving far away all hope, unless, indeed, the Angel 
of Forgiveness brings consolation to the soul. 

There are many walking this earth whose lives are 


THE SACRIFICE 


179 


shadowed by some great sorrow to which is added 
the pain of regret, caused by their own heedless and 
inconsiderate actions. Hasty marriages cause such 
vain repining and regret. The happiness of life is 
gone ; the hopes of a home, endearing companionship, 
are fled, because a hasty and inconsiderate action 
was taken where care and study were required. 0 ! 
that the young would give heed to the warning voice 
of experience, and thus escape the vain regrets of 
later years ! 

Yes, memory, we are sometimes stricken by it, and 
old reflections rush back to us as vividly as in time 
when they were our daily talk. We think of faces, 
and they return to us as plainly as when their 
presence gladdened our eyes, and their voices thrilled 
in our ears. 

With John, it was an affection that apparently 
came to an end, and had dropped out of his life, but 
had only been dormant. It was a sudden revival of 
old feelings and thoughts. 

He disposed of his oil holdings and stocks; sold 
everything, which aggregated to a large sum. He 
was a millionaire now, and was going back home to 
seek happiness. 

When he reached New Orleans, he felt like one in a 
dream ; everything seemed so strange to him. He had 
not kept up with the fashions of the day, consequent- 


180 


THE SACRIFICE 


1 y he engaged a valet and arranged for apartments at 
the most fashionable hotel in the city. With his hair 
white, and the long whiskers he had grown, he was 
disguised completely. He was now Senor Carlos 
Rodriguize, a millionaire from Mexico City. 

He made quite a stir in the social world ; the elite 
of the city considered it a slight not to have him 
honor them with his presence. 

Three weeks before Edna’s wedding day Lewis and 
his wife gave a reception to a selected number of 
friends in honor of their “beloved protegee,” as they 
termed it. Without fail Senor Carlos Rodriguize was 
numbered among the honored guests. 

In his private room John was silent and grave. 
Oh ! ’twas hard to face it all, in the home of one who 
had robbed him of his own happiness; to play the 
part of a stranger to his own child. Why, oh! God, 
was it so ? Nevertheless, he had to brace up and meet 
the situation, bear the consequences. 

We are all short-sighted and fail to see the end of 
things. A great deal of the misery of life comes from 
this disposition to have things our own way, as 
though we could not be happy under any circum- 
stances except those we have formed to meet our 
own wants. The disposition to make the best of life 
is what we need to make us happy. Again, happiness 
is a mosaic composed of many small stones — each, 


THE SACRIFICE 


181 


taken apart and viewed singly, may be of little value ; 
but when grouped and combined carefully and set, 
they form a pleasing whole, a costly jewel. 

At the appointed hour John was ready and looking 
his best. The distinguished millionaire from Mexico 
City departed from the hotel in his own private car 
for the Millers , palatial home, the abode where he 
had often spent delightful and joyful hours. He had 
purchased a wedding gift for the bride, and words 
are inadequate to describe its magnificence. It is use- 
less to say that he had not spared expense. It had to 
be costly — made to order, and exquisite in every de- 
tail — a rope of pearls, and a gold cross studded with 
diamonds hung from it. 

The Miller home was superb, elegant beyond com- 
pare. When he entered the garden, strange to say, 
he felt at home. His heart grew more vigorous; he 
braced up and walked proudly to the house. The 
guests had all arrived, and he was announced to the 
assemblage in a courteous and stately manner. “The 
Honorable Senor Carlos Rodriguize, from Mexico 
City.” He entered the drawing-room and bowed. 
Every one rose to do him honor. Lewis and his wife 
presented him to Edna. He took her hand and 
pressed it tightly, feeling unable to loosen his grasp. 
The face, the perfect image of his murdered wife. 
Everything reminded him of her. The eyes, the 


182 


THE SACRIFICE 


mouth, the figure. Oh! God, how unjust it was for 
him to stand there, silent and unable to tell how it all 
would terminate. How he longed to open his heart, 
embrace his child, and confess. Tell everything — how 
he had suffered, and was still in agony. But he had to 
wait. He could not plunge in — jump at conclusions, 
mar his daughter's happiness through his own 
hasty actions. 

He very gracefully handed Edna the golden case, 
which he took from his pocket, saying: “Wishing you 
every success in your married life, Miss Russell." 

She stood speechless, smiled radiantly and opened 
the case. 

“Magnificent! Gorgeous!" were the exclamations, 
as she held it up and showed it to her guests. Every- 
one was amazed. Words of praise and exclamations 
of joy were uttered in unison. A rope of oriental 
pearls, with a cross studded with diamonds. 

Harold, surprised and overjoyed, shook hands with 
the Senor, and expressed his deepest thanks for this 
generosity and mark of respect for his bride-to-be. 

Lewis' wife immediately fastened the pearls 
around Edna's neck, while all repeated their admira- 
tion of them. 

Lewis invited John into the garden for a smoke, 
and they strolled along until they reached the foun- 
tain where, so many years ago, they had stood and 


THE SACRIFICE 


183 


admired the little fishes playing gleefully with the 
bubbles on the water. 

Memory again recalled it to John. How it all came 
back ! There he stood, face to face with the man who 
had ruined his life. 

Gradually they drifted into serious conversation 
about Edna and her wedding. 

John expressed his admiration of her, saying: 
“She seems so young and innocent, and I feel sure 
that she is happy. Her finance seems to be a perfect 
gentleman. I shall venture to say that the couple will 
be very happy together.” 

“Yes,” answered Lewis, “undoubtedly. The match 
is the culmination of long and esteemed friendship. 
Their love for each other is bound to be lasting,” 
and he stopped, hung his head in thought, thinking 
silently of the ill-matched marriage of his beloved 
friend of years ago. 

John stared at Lewis in silence, biting his lips in 
pain. The revengeful feeling rose once more in his 
heart, and he was prompted to grasp him by the 
throat and tell him that he was John, the man whom 
he had villainously deceived. But no, not yet. The 
voice of conscience seemed to warn him. 

“Pardon me, Mr. Ferry,” said John. “You have 
been so lucky to receive the honor of rearing Miss 
Russsell. I trust you will not think me inquisitive? 


184 


THE SACRIFICE 


But I know a Mi*. John Russell in Mexico. He was a 
peculiar sort of a fellow. I made his acquaintance in 
a rather disagreeable manner. I was out in the oil 
fields one day, when I was accosted by him. He was 
apparently under the influence of liquor. He came up 
in a very abrupt and ungentlemanly way, calling out 
to me : ‘Look here, who are you ? All dressed up like 
you owned these wells. Fm Mr. Russell, and demand 
your identity!' I politely informed him that I was 
the owner of the fields, and asked him to be seated 
near me on a rock.” 

“Is that so,” surprisedly uttered Lewis. His eyes 
opened wide in astonishment. He quietly asked: 
“Senor, did he ever tell you about his life?” 

“Yes,” answered the Senor. “He certainly did, and 
I shall never forget it. It was too pitiful.” 

Just then Lewis' wife appeared on the scene, and 
asked them to join the guests at luncheon. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SECOND. 


“Hope deferred maketh the heart sick.” 

The following day Lewis was restless and anxious. 
He could not wait, but wrote to the Senor and asked 
him for an interview. His anxiety was unbearable. 
He wanted to know whether or not John was living, 
and where, so that he could go to him, tell him every- 
thing, bring him back and make a new start in life 
for him and with them. 

Senor was delighted to have him call, and named 
the hour for 9 o'clock in the evening. 

As the hall clock struck 9 Lewis was ushered into 
the private room of the Senor, and was told that he 
would be in presently. Lewis scrutinized the room 
and surroundings. He walked to the table and there 
caught sight of a little gold crucifix lying on a book 
entitled “Revenge.” He almost fell to the floor as he 
recognized the one and same little crucifix that he 
had given John on his wedding day. 


186 


THE SACRIFICE 


Presently the Senor appeared on the threshold, 
bowing and smiling pelasantly. 

Lewis, in his nervousness and embarrassment, 
caught the Senor’s hands and shook them nervously. 

“Be seated, Mr. Ferry, I am glad you came,” spoke 
the Senor. 

“Yes, thank you, Senor. I, too, am glad I came. 
Senor,” excitedly asked Lewis, “pardon me, but 
where did you get this little crucifix ?” Rising from 
his seat and going to the table he picked it up and 
held it in his hands. His face was pale, and his lips 
quivered. 

The Senor stood speechless for several seconds, 
and then flushed with anger. He could resist it no 
longer. His whole body revolted, and, breaking the 
silence, he spoke furiously: 

“Lewis Ferry, you scoundrel, you who robbed me 
of everything — love, honor and faith. You stand 
there before me, shaking like a criminal. Do you 
know me now?” suddenly advancing on Lewis with 
clenched fists. “Look into my eyes and see the agony, 
the pain you have caused me.” 

Lewis, unable to move, his faculties having left 
him, felt sick and miserable. He could not speak. 

John pulled out the drawer of the table and took 
out a revolver. 

Lewis saw him and, by the help of Providence, he 


THE SACRIFICE 


187 


suddenly recognized his strength and, standing erect, 
spo-ke in a masterful and convincing voice: 

“John Russell, you whom I once called 'friend/ you 
called me out into this world, and tried to make a 
criminal, a fool out of me. But, remember, you are 
mistaken. Listen to me — ” Just then John elevated 
his gun to shoot. 

Lewis jumped upon him, knocking the gun from 
his hand. They scuffled, and Lewis struck him in 
the face, which caused John to fall on his knees, and 
he finally sank to the floor, still cursing and abusing 
Lewis. 

“God only knows what I have suffered,” spoke 
Lewis, broken-heartedly, “all through your careless- 
ness, heedlessness and inconsiderate actions. You, 
who would not listen to reason and truth. You never 
tried to obey your conscience, but only fed on vice, 
folly and passion.” Going to John, whose face was 
bleeding, he spoke again : “Now, you have to listen to 
me. 

“The night of the murderous act I was sitting on 
your veranda when I saw a man enter your home. I 
followed him and heard him in your wife’s room. I 
felt for you ; it hurt me deeply, because I loved you 
as a brother. I went to my room with the intention of 
waiting for you, so as to catch this man and make 


188 


THE SACRIFICE 


him pay the penalty, but you came in hurriedly, and, 
before I could stop you, it was too late ; you fired.” 

John tried to rise, and Lewis assisted him to the 
chair, and told him: “Here, here is the proof,” pull- 
ing from his pocket the dying statement of Blake. 
“He was the man. He was the one who caused all this 
cruel and indescribable calamity. Read, read it all,” 
and he gave John the sheet of paper. 

John weakly grasped the paper and read in his 
anguish. 

“Now, John, see what you have brought down 
upon all of us,” said Lewis, his face full of sympathy, 
and tears rolling down his cheeks. “Your own little 
girl, Edna — remember, she is your child — she has 
asked and called for you many times. Her mother, 
also, was always before her. She told my loving wife 
that her mother was continually calling her.” 

John aroused himself at the word “child” and, 
raising his head, gazed at Lewis and cried childishly. 

Lewis stooped over him and clasped his hand, say- 
ing: “John, you have changed beyond recognition. 
Yes, you are different now.” 

“Yes,” he managed to answer, “I have changed. 
God knows I am a different man.” 

“Now, listen to me again, John. I still love you. I 
still cherish the fondest feelings for you. If you only 
knew what I have suffered because you were gone. 


THE SACRIFICE 


189 


We tried in every conceivable way to locate you, but 
everyone said you were dead. My wife and I reared 
little Edna in the love and fear of our God. She lives 
to be an exception. We love her as our very own. She, 
in return, has always displayed the fondest affection 
for us, and always showed true signs of a perfect and 
Christian lady.” 

“Lewis, I am sorry, answered John, crying. “So 
sorry that it cuts me and makes me feel like dying. 
Would that I had died rather than live this woeful, 
empty life. I have failed, all chances are lost, oppor- 
tunities wasted, love ill-chosen. There is nothing left. 
I have reached the end. My poor heart is bleeding to 
death. Lewis, my only friend, I have wronged you. 
Forgive me. Forgive me.” 

“John, dear old friend, take heart again, and be 
courageous. Confront difficulties with unflinching 
perseverance. No one can tell who the heroes are, and 
who the cowards, until some crisis comes to put us to 
the test. To struggle and again and again to renew 
the conflict, this is life’s inheritance. Re yourself 
again. Exercise your own powers, think your own 
thoughts, and speak your own sentiments. Form 
your own opinions and your own convictions to the 
will of God. He, our Redeemer, will take care of the 
consequence. Let your conscience speak, for it will 
set you on your feet again, and your will will hold 


190 


THE SACRIFICE 


you upright. Conscience is the moral governor of the 
heart, and only through its dominating influence can 
a noble character be fully developed." 

“Lewis, I have been blind and foolish beyond re- 
call, answered John. “I have failed in my attempts 
to secure happiness, peace of mind and contentment. 
Oh! my Lord, life, life eternal, I need courage; yes, 
I need you Lewis, my old and tried friend. I have 
been cruel to you, and I feel broken in spirit, down- 
trodden. My life has been misspent. Now death will 
claim me. Still, I’m not fit, not prepared to face my 
God. The time is short, for I feel the pangs of death's 
penalties. The winds of misfortune and sorrow have 
swept over my soul and scattered the blossoms of 
hope. I am lost" — crying bitterly. 

“John, do not give way like this. Take it upon 
yourself as a duty to repent and be better. The flow- 
ers of hope may be gone, but think of the fruits of 
long suffering: Tatience, faith and love.' Thus the 
darkest clouds which overhang your life now may ap- 
pear the brightest to the angels who behold them 
with prophetic ken from Heaven." 

“Oh! Lewis, you know that sorrow has killed 
many, and I am a victim." 

“No, a thousand times no, you will not die. You 
must not entertain such feelings. I admit that your 
heart has been powerfully stricken by this cruel 


THE SACRIFICE 


191 


blow, nevertheless it is wrong to sit down, fold your 
hands and mournfully feed upon grief and tears. 
Brace up, seek truth and righteousness, then you will 
gradually realize that life was lent for noble deeds. 
You still have a mission to fulfill. Come, now, awake 
from your meditations. Get ready, and Til return 
to-morrow with Edna. She must know all. It will 
please her to find her own dear father. She is fully 
capable to sustain the surprise and unexpected 
blow.” 

“Oh ! Lewis, shall she know the truth ?” 

“The truth, always,” answered Lewis. “We shall 
carefully relate it all to her. Harold, also, must be 
present. He must know everything, so as to be able 
to help and encourage his wife, when she'll feel sad 
and downhearted. If he loves her it will test him. He 
will sympathize with her in these hours of sorrow 
and pain. Sad accidents and a state of affliction are a 
school of virtue. It corrects levity. Adversity is the 
touchstone of character. Grief is a common bond that 
unites hearts. It can knit hearts closer than happi- 
ness can. There beats not a heart but has felt 
the force of affliction. There is not an eye but has 
witnessed many scenes of sorrow.” 


CHAPTER TWENTY-THIRD. 


“How uncertain is human life! There is but a 
breath of air and the beat of a heart betwixt this 
world and the next.” 

The painful and awful suspense made John power- 
less. The faint pulsation of his broken heart made 
him weaker and weaker. 

Lewis had made arrangements for Edna and 
Harold to meet the Senor in his private room at 10 
o’clock the following morning. 

John had lost all energy ; his strength to overcome 
the present difficulties failed him. He tried to walk, 
but his limbs weakened. Finally he manaaged to get 
to the table, sat in his chair and slowly picked up the 
pen and scribbled a farewell message to his daughter 
and friends. Then he tried to rise and go to his 
couch, but the effort strained him, and he fell over 
the table — dead. 

Death quickens recollections painfully. Some of 
the saddest experiences in life come without premo- 


THE SACRIFICE 


193 


nition. Yesterday life went well; hope was in the 
ascendant ; it was easy to be content. To-day, all is 
reversed. The crushed heart can scarcely lift itself 
to pray ; speech seems paralyzed. 

Lewis, Edna and Harold were admitted to John's 
apartments, and ushered into his private room. Edna 
stepped in first. She was so eager to know the in- 
tentions of the Senor in requesting this interview, 
and was at a loss to fathom the motives. Harold fol- 
lowed her, and Lewis came in last. 

The valet rushed to the table and caught John in 
his arms ; he lifted him up and uttered a cry of fear 
and terror. “Yes, sir, he is dead." 

Lewis quickly assisted him to rest the body on a 
couch, while Edna screamed excitedly, grasping 
Harold's arm tightly. 

The valet soon discovered the note lying upon the 
table and handed it Lewis. Lewis read the note and 
handed it to Edna, saying: “Darling little girl read 
this and do not falter. It is God's will." 

Edna opened her eyes in wonder and astonishment. 
She slowly accepted the letter and stared at the 
writing. 

“My Darling Little Girl — Death is claiming me. I 
cannot live it out. Oh ! God only knows I am sorry. 
It is too late. Pray for me, dear child. Forgive the. 


194 


THE SACRIFICE 


injury I have done you. Some day, perhaps, we shall 
meet again in the beautiful abode of our Lord. 
Darling, pray for your mother, also; she sinned 
shamefully. Pray, pray for our deliverance, dear 
child. Good-by. May God bless you. Farewell, dear 
friends. JOHN.” 

Edna read the letter with strained eyes, and stood 
speechless. Lewis and Harold stared at her. Sudden- 
ly she came forward to embrace Lewis, her foster- 
father, when he caught her, as she had swooned. 

When God sees fit to afflict, the body and the soul 
may be plunged into sorrow's dungeon, still are there 
not some happy phases to life's weary pilgrimage? 
To bear the ills of life patiently is one of the noblest 
virtues, and one which requires as vigorous an exer- 
cise of the will as to resent the encroachment of 


wrong. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-FOURTH. 


She left her home, her wealth, her amusements, 
her companions, her lover, all for God.” 

Edna, Harold, Lewis and his wife had assembled 
in the library, at the request of Lewis, for the pur- 
pose of explaining the entire mystery to Edna. Edna 
was laboring under a lementable delusion. Her face, 
once radiant with perpetual smiles, now showed signs 
of extreme grief and perplexity. She had changed 
surprisingly. 

Harold sat by her on the davenport, and placed his 
arm about her affectionately. 

Lewis seated himself in his Morris chair, and 
beckoned his wife to sit on the arm of his chair. 
There in a group they lingered and lent attentive 
ears to the tale of woe and bitter suffering of Edna’s 
parents. 

Lewis never faltered in his detailed talk. He 
defined and illustrated every point, from the old Her- 


196 


THE SACRIFICE 


mit’s tale to the courtship of John and Edna — then 
the tragedy. 

Tears filled his eyes as he spoke, and his wife 
would dry them with her kerchief, saying: “Dearest, 
you have said enough. Compose yourself and trust in 
God.” 

Edna, lamenting, broken-hearted to the core, 
buried her face in her hands. 

Silence reigned in the room for several seconds, 
when Harold spoke discouragingly : “It seems cruel 
that such a calamity should be permitted, when we 
might have been so happy. Was there not some way 
by which it could have been avoided? Or at least 
wait a while?” 

Lewis instantly fixed his eyes on him, wondering 
what the intent of this assertion meant. 

Edna impulsively extricated herself from his em- 
brace, and faced him boldly, saying: “What do you 
mean? Am I to infer that you are dissatisfied with 
my lineage, my ancestors, my misfortune, my 
future?” Finally, giving vent to unrestrained sobs 
and tears: “Yes, my heart is crushed. My whole life 
is blighted. Oh ! God, have mercy on me ; help me to 
bear it all,” and she knelt in their presence, folded 
her hands in prayer, closed her eyes, with the tears 
streaming down her cheeks, and continued: “God, in 
His mercy, will not forsake me. I am going to bear it. 


THE SACRIFICE 


197 


Yes, I’ll heed my father’s dying request — to pray, 
pray, for their deliverance. To-morrow I shall enter 
a convent, and remain there to the end of my days. 
Yes, a good woman’s prayer will, from the deepest 
dungeon, climb Heaven’s height and give a bless- 
ing.” Rising from the floor, she again faced Harold, 
and spoke convincingly: 

"Remember, young man, when you are surrounded 
by friends and the comforts of life there might come 
a time when the storm of life may blow upon you, 
then you will remember me, and see how necessary 
to us is a faith in God’s word and promises.” 

Harold sprung to his feet excitedly and clasped 
Edna’s hands, imploring her to defer her decision. 
"No, you must not, Edna dear. Think of me, your 
promised and devoted husband. Dearest, I never 
meant a word of it. You misunderstand, you accuse 
me wrongfully. Forgive, dear, and I promise you that 
nothing will ever be mentioned about this affair 
again. Come,” and he tried to fondle her, but she re- 
sisted and spoke thus: 

"Harold, dear boy, I am not the same woman I was 
yesterday. As I said, my heart is crushed ; I cannot 
marry you and be happy; I cannot lead a life of 
‘make-believe.’ It is best, dear, that we part forever. 
You will soon learn to love another. I must make a 
sacrifice for my unfortunate parents. They were 


198 


THE SACRIFICE 


weak. I must be strong. It is so hard, under the cir- 
cumstances, for me to say that it is 'all for the 
best/ ” and she wept silently. 

Lewis, unable to understand this outburst, tried to 
reconcile Edna. "Listen, dear little girl, you are full 
of sorrow just now. Do not be unkind through your 
afflictions. You need thought and consideration. Wait 
a while before you form your resolution. Remember, 
no creature would be more unhappy than a man or 
woman who had never known affliction. The best 
need sorrow for the trial of their virtue. You have 
promised to wed Harold. Now, deliberate on this im- 
portant topic, and make your decision later. Let your 
heart dictate. Choose between wedded life or re- 
nounce the world and follow Christ, the Son of God.” 

Harold felt downtrodden, and walked away. When 
he reached the doorway he stopped, looked back, ex- 
tended his arms to Edna, who had thrown herself 
over the pillows on the davenport. He called out to 
her, saying: "Darling, will you let me go? Are you 
sending me away? Think, love, how cruel this is.” 

But Edna never stirred; she was thinking deeply 
and conscientiously. 

It has been said that life commences when the 
mind learns to meditate upon its nature, its powers 
and its possibilities. Yes, the commencement of true 


THE SACRIFICE 


199 


soul-growth. To live without thought is not life; it 
is simple, barren existence. 

Edna weighed everything slowly and carefully. She 
could not induce herself to face the world again with 
this weight of sorrow constantly on her mind. Could 
she dispel it? No, no! It was impossible. Could she 
erase the remembrance? But, no; with a relative jus- 
tice, memory summons us to review our trials and 
tribulations. 

There are dark hours that mark the history of the 
brightest years. Though there are the dark ones, 
when the fire will neither burn on our hearths nor in 
our hearts, and all without and within is dismal, 
there come days when we rejoice in the brightness 
of hope and prosperity. 

She now firmly resolved to devote her time to 
charity, and enter the Convent of the Sacred Heart. 
It was not to be her lot to participate in the delights 
and pleasures of a “ ‘union of hearts.” 

Fate had consigned her to solitude and celibacy. 
She gradually consoled herself with the assurance 
that there are advantages in being alone. “God has 
given me existence, and I choose a life of sacrifice 
and prayer.” 

The following day she visited her mother's grave 
in company with her foster-father and mother. To 
evade scandal, and keep the secret, they had interred 


200 


THE SACRIFICE 


her mother in a little country churchyard. No monu- 
ment marked the spot; only a marble slab, with an 
iron cross resting uprightly in the center. There 
were no flowers to adorn it. No one ever visited it — 
it was forgotten, neglected and unnoticed. 

Oh! a mother’s grave! It is indeed a sacred spot. 
Who has stood by the grave of a mother and not re- 
membered her smiles, kind words and assurance ex- 
pressed in a dying hour. 

She rebuked her foster-parents for deceiving her 
by concealing the sad fate and abandoned grave of 
her unfortunate mother. They had told her that she 
had died at sea and was buried in the deep waters. 
Now she knew everything. Her heart was filled with 
compassion, and only wished to make any sacrifice 
for her poor thoughtless and inconsiderate parents. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-FIFTH. 


“To the faithful, one reward is certain.” 

“Edna, dearest, why do you choose to leave us ? 
Think of the life you will live. Think of the days, 
years spent in seclusion. Nothing but grave nuns 
around you. It is foolish, absurd. Nothing but prayer, 
religion only,” recited Helen in unison with the other 
girls who had come to dissuade Edna from her pur- 
pose. 

“Hush, Helen, you speak thoughtlessly. Nothing 
can turn me from my purpose. I am carrying it out 
with the assent of reason, the approval of my con- 
science and sober judgment. It has been my vehe- 
ment desire, since I finished school at the convent, 
inspired by hope and intense resolve, to pray and to 
work for the salvation of souls. To live such a life is 
a peerless privilege, no matter at what cost of pain 
or unremitting toil.” 

“But, remember, dear girl,” said Ruby, another 
friend, “think of the misery, the regret and remorse. 


202 


THE SACRIFICE 


Then it will be too late. I cannot see how you will be 
happy away from everything you love, excluded from 
real life, a life of joy and happiness.” 

“Oh! Ruby, you doubtless do not know what you 
have said. 'Excluded from real life’ ? Dearest, do you 
mean to say that the life of to-day, as it is being 
lived, is real ? Oh ! dear girl, think ; look around you 
and see the misery, hardship, discontent, deceit and 
unhappiness on every side. Dear girls, it is the mind 
that makes the heart rich. Real happiness is with 
God. Days, years spent to serve Him will never be 
regretted. I will never know remorse when I feel con- 
fident that my God will answer my prayer and re- 
ward my good deeds.” 

“Well, not for me,” said Agnes, another friend. “I 
detest loneliness and extreme religion. That’s too 
much of a good thing. Give me freedom. Give me 
pleasures, good times. That’s happiness. We live but 
once, and I’m going to stay with it.” 

“Agnes, dear, you mean to say that I shall not 
find pleasure and happiness in my new life? Oh! 
silly girl, where do we find happiness? Now, answer 
me, all of you,” demanded Edna. 

But no one replied. They knew not . They had 
never given a thought to this question, “the source 
of happiness.” 

“Happiness, dear girls, is in doing one’s duty. We 


THE SACRIFICE 


203 


all have good and bad in us, and duty gains its vic- 
tory by peace and tranquillity of mind. Happiness 
does not consist of things, but lies beyond that. 
Created things cannot satisfy the desire of our 
soul. Happiness is sure to be the reward of the one 
who knows his duty and does it, regardless of what 
others say, or of the immediate results flowing from 
thence. There is happiness in conscious recitude, a 
pleasure in the approval of one's own mind, in com- 
parison with which the treasures of earth are not 
worth mentioning." 

The girls readily saw that it was useless to argue 
with Edna, as she was firm and had fully decided to 
carry out this “mad project," as they called it. 

At the door they met Harold. He, too, had come to 
beseech Edna to change her intention. Edna noticed 
him, and extended both hands, smiling and saying: 
“Dear old friend, I am glad to see you." 

Harold, in an ecstasy of joy, embraced her and 
printed a fervent kiss upon her lips. She painfully 
and gently released herself from his fond embrace, 
speaking from her heart: “Harold, you will not miss 
me. Some one else will take my place." 

“Edna, my love, my all, speak not this way. You 
shall not forsake me. You must listen to reason. 
What has gotten hold of you, little girl ?" and he held 
her directly facing him. “You do not seem to under- 


204 


THE SACRIFICE 


stand that I love you. You have promised to be my 
wife ! Because of the misfortunes of your parents do 
you wish to blight your life and mine ?” 

She revolted at the remark about her parents’ 
misfortunes. “No,” answered she, “their misfortunes 
have not blighted our lives, but the knowledge of 
them has incited me with a desire and feeling to live 
a life of purity, a life of sacrifice.” 

“Hush ! I say you are blind, and cannot see the true 
aim of life. Do you wish to imply that you believe 
there is no purity in married life? That there is no 
sacrifice in wedded life ?” 

“Oh, Harold, you misunderstand my meaning. I 
state, emphatically, that doing one’s duty in life, 
whether married or single, fulfills the requirements 
of the law of God. But my heart, my soul and con- 
science call me to devote my life to charity, and to 
pray for the departed souls who failed to do their 
duty in this world of struggle and strife. Harold, old 
friend, go into the busy world. Do your duty in the 
love and fear of God, and I feel justified in saying 
that you will be happy. We are not married yet. The 
remembrance of my vow and sacrifice should inspire 
you. It should remind you that ‘God is our Master 
Divine and Supreme.’ He guides and directs our 
course in this life. Also remember, dear friend, that 
you will have a place in my prayers, and some day 


THE SACRIFICE 


205 


perhaps we shall meet in the home which our 
Heavenly Father has prepared for us. Good-by, 
Harold,” and she pressed his hand tightly and smiled 
pleasantly. 

He pressed her hand and gradually loosened it, as 
she slowly left the room. He was full of pain and dis- 
appointment. How could he forget? 

Finaly, he left the room — went away into the 
world to forget and love again. 

Edna was now an heiress, immensely wealthy ; her 
father's fabulous wealth was all hers now. But what 
cared she for it? She said: “I shall distribute it all 
among the poor and suffering." She consequently or- 
dered Lewis to make donations to several asylums 
and orphanages, reserving a large amount for the 
erection of a beautiful chapel at the convent, which 
she was about to enter. 

Next to the consolation of divine grace, it is the 
most sovereign balm to the miseries of life, both in 
the one who is the object of benevolence and in him 
who exercises it. 

The chapel was her recreation abode. Kneeling at 
the foot of the mammoth crucifix erected at the left 
of the sanctuary, there alone (a genoux) she invoked 
God to have mercy on her poor parents, lifted her 
head towards Heaven, with tears in her anxious 
eyes and a prayer in her heart, living in hope of some 


206 


THE SACRIFICE 


day meeting* her loved ones in the Home of Blessed- 
ness. 

Her prayers flew on angel’s wings to the throne of 
God, and returned to her struggling heart a precious 
benison of inspiration to go forth with her good 
works. 


“Sans Dieu rien. ! 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SIXTH. 


“He that shoots at the stars may hurt himself, but 
not danger them.” 

Three years later Harold Lansing is at home with 
his much irritated and narrow-minded wife. 

She had been informed that he was once on the 
verge of marrying a notorious woman, who repented 
and became a nun. She never fails to remind him of 
the “disgrace,” as she called it. She had a terrible ab- 
horrence for these hypocritical nuns, and disgusting 
Catholic principles, as she termed them. She could 
not argue sensibly. It had been instilled in her to 
always hate and despise anything Catholic, and it is 
needless to say that she availed herself of the teach- 
ings and false accusations. 

“But, my dear, why do you speak so cruelly and 
display your ignorance in such a manner as to bring 
naught but ridicule and shame upon us? You ought 
not to slander people as you do.” 

“You are lying,” said she ; “shut up, I say. I know 


208 


THE SACRIFICE 


you still love Edna Russell, that devilish sort of a 
saint,” she continued, laughing. “Oh, she is so holy 
and meek. It is all nonsense, nothing but deceit and 
corruption, that's what it is.” 

“Carrie, it is evident that "you are weak and have 
an evil nature. Listen to me : I forbid you to bring up 
this subject again. I do not care to have you defame 
any one.” 

“Oh, yes,” said she, “your lost love. You married 
me because you couldn’t get her. It is all through 
spite, eh? But don’t you fool yourself by believing 
that I am going to stand for it, no sir!” 

“Why speak evil of another. Remember, we all 
have our faults, and if we expect charity from the 
world we must be charitable ourselves.” 

Along with time circumstances developed; Harold 
and Carrie became very unhappy. Their home was 
the scene of unpleasantness. There was no longer 
peace, only open discord remained. 

"Remember, my dear readers, homes do not consist 
of only material things. It is not the magnificent 
dwelling, expensive furniture, classy automobiles, 
that make a home. No, a true and ideal home is a 
heart-home, where virtue lives and love-flowers 
bloom, and peace rules. The children will love such 
a home, and when far away on life’s rough journey 
they will look back to that peaceful home and regret 


THE SACRIFICE 


209 


that they ever left it, and like the tired pilgrim, will 
again turn their wistful eyes, hilled with eternal 
longing, towards it. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENTH. 


“Innocence and Charity.” 

“Yellow fever! An epidemic! The whole city is 
doomed !” were the exclamations of everyone. 

Many deaths were reported. Yet everything was 
being done to keep it from spreading. All efforts 
were useless; every day was worse, and things be- 
came darker. More deaths ! Many more new cases ! 

“Nurses ! Nurses !” was the cry. “We need nurses ; 
who will volunteer ?” 

Large sums were offered, but very few responded. 
The situation was critical ! 

Even the home of Harold was not spared from the 
dreadful scourge. He was taken suddenly with 
the fever ; his wife followed. They were left alone ; 
only an old colored mammy had remained, and tried 
in every possible way to relieve them, but it was too 
much. The poor old soul did not understand. She 
was too busy looking after the little two-year-old 
baby, who fortunately so far had escaped the 
plague. 


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THE SACRIFICE 


211 


In conformity with their teachings many nuns 
volunteered to go out and administer to the sick and 
try to cheer them in their agony and trials. 

And it so happened that Edna, now known as Sis- 
ter Dolores, was assigned to Harold's home. 

She, without a murmur, obeyed, and arriving at 
the death-stricken household, found Harold uncon- 
scious. No hope was entertained for his recovery. 
Carrie was sinking gradually, and she also was 
doomed. 

“At last!” sighed Sister Dolores, with joy in her 
heart, “I shall be able to do my share.” The old 
affection and sympathy were again aroused. She 
had thought she would never see him again. But 
Cod had been merciful and she had been sent to re- 
lieve him and pray at his death-bed. 

Harold raved and called. He spoke quietly only 
at intervals, repeating in his delirium: “Edna, yes, 
my dearest Edna, I am lost, gone forever.” Giving 
way to sobs, he slowly continued: “Yes, my wife and 
I are lost, Edna. Edna, where are you? We shall 
soon leave this cruel world, and you, you, Edna, who 
sacrificed everything, must take unto your charge 
our little Edna and rear her, dearest, in the fear of 
God. Let her be with you forever. Please, please 
save her — she bears your name.” 

Sister Dolores softly whispered to him : “Let us be 


212 


THE SACRIFICE 


patient in sickness. Everything will end well, God 
will forgive us.” 

“God, oh my God ! send her to me, dear Lord. I 
need her.” He struggled madly, heaved a final sigh, 
and with a peaceful smile on his feverish lips entered 
into that sleep from which there is no awakening. 

Sister Dolores knelt at his bedside, clasped her 
chaplet in her hands, and lifting her face to Heaven, 
fervently prayed, “Father, have mercy on his soul.” 

The following day Carrie died in the ministering 
arms of the comforting nun. 

Sister Dolores took little Edna to the convent with 
the determination that she would devote her life to 
the little angel. 

The child became inseparably attached to Sister 
Dolores, who could always be seen gleefully playing 
and amusing little Edna under the wide-spreading 
oaks, swinging up, up among the branches, amid 
peals of childish laughter. 

“Great souls make all affections great ; they elevate 
and consecrate all true delights.” 

Charity, the real law of life 

The link that connects earth with Heaven. 


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